


Remember Our Love

by sycamoretree



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Character Death, M/M, Misunderstandings, Romance, Smut, Trauma, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-26
Updated: 2015-01-31
Packaged: 2017-12-13 01:49:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 53,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/818544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sycamoretree/pseuds/sycamoretree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fill for this prompt on the Hobbit kink meme: Dwalin and Ori are a couple in the reclaimed Erebor but after a fight Ori leaves for Moria and never returns. Dwalin stubbornly spends time holding a grudge but eventually misses Ori and Balin too much and follows them. Unfortunately he arrives to Moria some years too late and finds the mines empty except for the dead bodies of his friends. When the Fellowship comes to Lothlorien they are surprised to find a dwarf living with the elves; one who can draw but doesn't remember who he is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Inspiring song: Crave you – Flight Facilities**

Why can't you want me like the other boys do?  
They stare at me while I stare at you  
Why can't I keep you safe as my own?  
One moment I have you the next you are gone  
Rehearsed steps on an empty stage  
That boy's got my heart in a silver cage

**Prologue**

_December 3019 (One month before the Fellowship of the Ring enters Lothlorien)._

Dwalin wrapped his strong arms around his treasured One. He gave Ori hot, insistent kisses with feverish lips that left Ori’s lips swollen and his neck marked so he would have to wear a knitted scarf the next day when he worked for the Royal court.

“You’re chafing me,” Ori complained in a giggle and squirmed beneath the solid weight to escape the onslaught of beard rubbing against his neck.

“Apologies,” Dwalin rumbled, feeling no remorse whatsoever, and cradled him to his chest. Mirth played in his eyes as he kissed Ori’s full lips.

Around their bed lay stacks of books, weapons, and other trinkets that always littered their home. Dwalin’s knuckle busters, breeches, tunic, belt and boots were scattered on the floor haphazardly, discarded with haste. He had chosen to undress himself swiftly to be able to join his lover in bed faster.

Now he was kissing Ori’s fingers. Dwalin loved the different callouses on Ori’s delicate hands compared to his own. They both toiled, but in different trades that suited them. Ori worked for the court in Erebor; handling the incoming and outgoing diplomatic messages, helping dwarves who wanted to look into the library, and organizing the steadily growing archive as the kingdom in the mountain grew more and more active for each year that passed since the slaying of Smaug.

Dwalin’s expertise lay in the art of war, and so, he had been selected by King Thorin Oakenshield to be the Royal vanguard. His duties entailed protecting the Royal family at ceremonies and audiences, advising Thorin when he asked for assistance in planning the defense of Erebor should an attack come from orcs, and training the recruits who wished to become skilled warrior dwarves or guards.

The reward from Dwalin and Ori’s work was plenty of coins and honour to build a home of their own next to the Royal quarters of Erebor.

Dwalin lifted his head and his gaze swept around the bedchamber and he noticed how the dying ember in fireplace gleamed red. He reminded himself to add another log after their lovemaking. Then he aimed his full attention towards his One again.

A while later, Dwalin was lying on his side behind Ori, rocking into him as Ori cried out and mewled every time Dwalin nudged his cock against the spot inside him. It was hot beneath the furs, but Dwalin paid the heat no mind when he was balls-deep inside his naked lover, using a steady rhythm that would soon bring both of them to the climax. He whispered sweet and crude words into Ori’s red ear as he reached over the bare hip and stroked the soft, parted thighs.

“You have my love, ink-dwarf. You're clenching around me so good; taking my hard cock so well. Ori, my One. You are so ready to reach pleasure. Moan for me.”

He slid out and pushed in and then guided Ori’s clenching hands to his neglected, weeping cock. The dwarf in front of him arched his back and wailed into the night as he came with a long shudder, hands errantly working his shaft throughout it.

With expertise, Dwalin captured Ori’s released load in his palm so to not soil their bed too much, and thrust faster, losing himself in the cramping hole that was snug around his swollen cock.

“Do it, Dwalin. Mahal! Finish inside me,” Ori grounded out in a hoarse voice as he still rode the waves of his orgasm and Dwalin grunted and fucked him harder until he spilled inside the other dwarf with a long groan.

Once both of them came down from the high and their breaths evened out, Ori nudged back into Dwalin’s frame and turned his head, mutedly asking for a kiss. Dwalin obliged and then he admired the fine features on Ori’s face, the slight, freckled, naked body he held with strong, sweaty arms.

His eyes lingered at the intriguing contrast between Ori’s slim waist and bulbous buttocks that Dwalin loved to knead thoroughly as he pounded intensely into his lover. Ori, the scribe with unblemished skin, always enticed him; the weathered warrior with scars covering his body.

Dwalin shook his head with amaze, not fully comprehending how he could be so blessed to receive Ori’s love.

He swept a rough finger over Ori’s cheek bone. “Did I satisfy you, my lovely dwarf?” he emitted with a husky voice and Ori gave him a beautiful smile.

“You know you did. I could almost fall asleep at once.”

“Wait a moment, though,” Dwalin whispered and pulled out carefully. He then pushed down the furs to inspect flushed Ori’s body with smug curiosity. Slickness coated Ori’s thighs and the realization of him being spread so open that seed was leaking out made Ori blush hard, even if that was a usual occurrence in their bed by now.

Dwalin patted his bum and got up to wash his filled hand in the bowl of water they kept for this purpose, and to soak a soft rag in another bowl before wringing it and returning to the cooling bed where a prone Ori looked utterly blissed. Dwalin ignored stoking the fire, knowing he would keep both of them warm until morning.

Dwalin was utterly tender as he brought the wet linen cloth between Ori’s legs and cleaned up the remnants of their love-making. Ori’s pointy ears were always turning a violent shade of red at the intimate wash-up, much to Dwalin’s amusement.

“I have never been so warm in a bed until you began intensifying courting me in Erebor,” Ori sighed once Dwalin was done and had dumped the cloth beside the bed in order to return to his lover. Ori nestled his back into his lover’s embrace and Dwalin stroked his belly gently and rumbled softly like an animal, pleased at the praise.

“To warm you in our bed is like a balm to my mind,” he commented slowly and felt Ori drift into sleep. Before he knew it, Dwalin himself was asleep.

That night, Dwalin dreamt of Ori’s sweaty body accepting Dwalin’s intruding shaft. This Ori clenched down hard around him and gasped his name against his severed ear.

“Dwalin!”

Then the image swirled like smoke and formed a new scene.

The grey Chamber of Mazarbul, or the Chamber of Records in the Common tongue, dwelling in Moria. The chamber was gloomy except for the piercing cone of concentrated light that shone upon Balin’s tomb, upon the sullied remains of fallen dwarves, and upon one small skeleton that clutched a tome desperately, leaning against the grave.

“Ori!”

Dwalin realized he was screaming as he jolted awake. He sat up swiftly, wrenched his eyes open, and breathed hard. His large frame was shivering, damp from sweat from the nightmare, and the warrior dwarf brought his knees up and leaned his tattooed head against them, willing himself to not cry even as sobs wrecked his body.

The large bed he occupied was too big for one dwarf, and soaked in anguish.

‘Ori is not alive. Ori is dead. Just like my brother,’ Dwalin thought sternly. He knew this so why did his sleeping mind have to plague him with sweet memories that seemed wonderfully real and then crush them with the harsh fact that Ori had fallen in Moria back in year 2994; alone, unprotected, and without reconciliation with his former lover?

***

**30 years earlier…**

_Year 2989 (Time for departure for the Moria campaign)_

Dwalin had his feet propped up on a chair and divided the last steaming sausage on his wooden plate before ushering one part to an agitated Ori who was informing him on how an ambassador from the Iron Hills had amused all the dwarves working in the library before they noticed how he treated, or rather mistreated, the old parchments.

Dwalin listened attentively to his One as he began digging into the last of his dinner.

“And I tell you; I thought Brár would die on the spot when the ambassador crumpled the corner of one scroll and talked so wildly that he spat on the ledger. No respect at all for documents!”

Dwalin chuckled, enjoying the younger dwarf’s honest passion for books and scrolls.

“You should have summoned me to deal with him. I could have escorted him out of the library,” he commented but Ori scoffed.

“To let a large warrior like you into the library is like trapping an unarmed dwarf in a room filled with skunks. You would panic and trample the place into rubble.”

Then Ori looked up from his meal and added with a grin, “No offense.”

Dwalin huffed and shrugged, indicating he wasn’t affected by the insult. The library contained fragile things Ori considered sacred, and Dwalin was the kind of dwarf who could only handle and respect one fragile thing at a time. For now, Ori was that thing. Dwalin recalled with fondness how they had met some years ago in Bilbo’s home.

At the dinner table in the hobbit’s hole, Dwalin had been bemused and also appreciated the young dwarf who after dinner flew up from his chair and declared his fearlessness and readiness to go up against Smaug. The dwarf looked like a dwarfling barely dry behind his ears, and yet his spirit and boldness, even if it was foolish words he spoke, struck a core inside Dwalin’s chest.

Later that evening, Dwalin found himself side by side with the same dwarf before the fireplace in Bag End when Thorin began singing about home.

Dwalin had noticed how the mousy youth, apparently the Company scribe, had seated himself beside him; not wary of him like other strangers tended to be when they first met him.

This Ori, brother of Dori, didn’t shy away at the mere sight of his weathered and intimidating appearance. During the song, Dwalin folded his enormous and still armed arms and spared a glance at the youth. He was slight and carried an earnest but untroubled face that spoke of a protected childhood and naivety.

His shape lacked muscles that Dwalin had made sure through training that the royal brothers, Fili and Kili, at least had. This dwarf had everything working against him, and Dwalin didn’t just refer to Mr. Baggins when he had said, ‘The wild is no place for gentle folk who can neither fight nor fend for themselves’.

But still, he had noticed Ori in a way that affected him to the point where he kept his eyes on the dwarf as their journey began, shoved him back to the safety of the group when the elves approached in Rivendell, made sure he was already up in a pine, well away from the attacking wargs before Dwalin climbed one himself after seeing to hoister his brother up to a branch.

And slowly, Ori had come to notice his presence.

First the sneaky glances had come, followed by downright hero worship after Dwalin’s fight out of the goblin town, and his jump into the group of ferocious wargs to protect his unconscious king.

But somewhere between leaving Beorn's home and getting caught by the Mirkwood elves, the small scribe had found ways to seek out Dwalin’s company and not get detected by his brothers.

Or not by Dori at least, for the overprotective brother had a hard time seeing in the dark woods, and the other, Nori, might suffer the same condition, though Dwalin had not underestimated the former criminal’s keen eyes and just assumed that the red-haired dwarf was unwilling to confront the very much law-abiding former towns guard and demand he leave his brother alone.

As the Company had walked on a line on the narrow path through the dark forest, Ori sometimes trotted behind Dwalin’s broad back and his hand brushed against Dwalin’s swinging one.

Ori’s bedroll was occasionally placed not that far from the warrior’s.

Dwalin answered the signals of accepting courting by surreptitiously giving what provisions he could spare to the young, still growing dwarf.

When the spiders attacked, Dwalin fought madly and sliced the sticky webs to get to Ori’s side and protect him, but was hindered when one beast pierced his armor and stung him so numbing poison leaked into his system. That was the beginning of their intensified love and fondness.

As they began to know each other further, they discovered some quaint similarities despite their different appearances.

They shared the same preferences when it came to food. Dwalin craved meet like no other dwarf, for his warrior body needed it, and Ori also favoured steak over vegetables. When they began courting officially in Erebor, Ori quickly found out that Dwalin had a sweet tooth, particularly for cookies whereas Ori enjoyed pastries. Many evenings spent in their quarter turned messy and arousing when they shared desert before getting hungry for each other.

And they lived together in a home they had brought furniture and possessions into. The faint smell of dragon which had remained in Erebor for seven years after the beast left vanished. Dwalin's love for Ori grew for each long day that passed in the scribe's company. And Ori called him beloved One whenever he greeted him, whether it was in their home, in the large market hall just inside Erebor's gates, or in the Royal palace. Dwalin had decided to grow old with Ori, when that time came.

He still felt vigorous and the daily training kept him strong. One advantage of his occupation as the Durin's guard, beside the generous salary and the honour, was that Ori's eyes widened whenever he saw his One remove his clothing to wash the grime from his muscled form.

Dwalin smiled to himself at one such occasion recently as he reached for the tin cup to down the last of his ale. He still wondered who had truly been the ravaged one when the desire burst inside their chests. Maybe he should make another, thorough cleaning later, before they went to bed.

Dwalin flexed his arms surreptiously as he had folded them over his chest, but he didn't get the wanted reacation from Ori, who had stopped talking a while ago in favor of digesting the dinner. The older dwarf swept his assessing eyes over the youth, who always would be a youth in his eyes. Ori was looking at his lap and twirling the hem of his newly finished jumper. A twitchy Ori was an anxious Ori.

"Ori?" Dwalin asked carefully, suddenly missing the excited face and the bizarre stories from the library.

Ori licked his lips in a far from arousing way, and then he inhaled deeply, but hesitated right before he looked as he was going to say something. Worry stabbed Dwalin in the gut and he sat straighter in his chair, but leaned his torso over the table, closer to Ori.

"Ori, my gemstone; tell me what's on your mind."

Ori shifted and his eyes flicked around, not quite meeting Dwalin. “There’s something else that happened today. I heard of something incredible.” Dwalin was halfway up from his chair, ready to go over to Ori and kneel by him to examine him for injuries from maybe a violent customer. But Ori's calm tone had him seated.

”Pray tell, then." Dwalin spoke in a clipped voice, cautiously watching every nervous twitch on his One's beardless and thus so much more expressive face.

Then Ori's eyes flitted to Dwalin's and Ori let go of the jumper; immediately looking older than his years, which Dwalin didn't like one bit.

“Your brother visited the library. Balin held a speech to all those inside the building. There is a plan for a campaign to reclaim Moria. And I want to join that party.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two lovers fight.

**Chapter 2**

**Inspiring song: Foolish games - Jewel**

Well in case you failed to notice,  
In case you failed to see,  
This is my heart bleeding before you,  
This is me down on my knees, and...  
These foolish games are tearing me apart,  
And your thoughtless words are breaking my heart.  
You're breaking my heart.

_Year 2989 (Time for departure for the Moria campaign)_

They were fighting. Brutally, even while using words instead of physical violence. It was awful.

Dwalin paced in the dining room from the passage of the adjoining kitchen to the doorway to thier fireplace room. Ori however stood by his chair at the table and leaned forward with his hands on the surface. Dwalin could hardly look at his One as he thought Ori had severed the bond between them.

“Do I not have the right to discuss this with you?” Ori asked while frowning but Dwalin didn't care about his disapproving face.

“What exactly is it you’re seeking to achieve with this journey, hm? It is folly to venture so far from our kingdom with only hope and rumors as guidance,” he retorted and Ori answered indignantly with glistening eyes, “You only wish to persuade me to not go. You’ll try to reason me out of it…”

“I merely suggest that you stay here. I can only protect you if you have self-preservation,” Dwalin replied coolly as he strode through the room to loom over Ori who defiantly lifted his head.

“It is my desire to go.”

“Do you not love me anymore?” Dwalin pressed and received an exasperated reply.

“Of course I do! I love you more than all the jewels I’ve seen in Middle-Earth.”

Dwalin smirked and countered, “But not enough to stay.”

Ori averted his eyes and his narrow shoulders slumped. “Dwalin, this isn’t about you, or my love for you. I just want to travel again. See a new kingdom. Document the quest. Why can’t you respect that?”

“Give me all those pretty reasons, but even so; the main point is that you will still leave me.”

“So come with me, stubborn dwarf!” Ori exclaimed and uncharacteristically threw down his closed fists on the wooden surface of the table and the loud bang was followed by the beads and clasps in Ori’s hair that jingled at the sudden movement.

“My place is here; at my King’s side. I shan’t abandon my obligations or duty.” Dwalin turned his back to Ori and resumed stalking back and forth, crackling energy unerving him and his warrior instincts. Ori narrowed his eyes.

“As you think I do? That I’m being disloyal to Thorin? For your information; your own brother; Thorin’s closest advisor, initiated the mission in the first place. And Thorin gave us permission to go and revive Moria. _Abandon duties_ , my arse. Go on then and accuse Balin too for disloyalty and dishonor.” Ori looked angry, and hurt.

Dwalin snapped his head up at the revelation. Dwalin felt betrayed by his own brother who wanted to bring Ori on another quest through Middle-Earth. “So Balin is behind your decision, too? For how long have you two been conspiring behind my back?!”he demanded in a growl that didn't deter his brave and fierce lover. Ori bristled.

“It wasn’t a secret! I just wanted it to be a surprise and invite you, and arrange an adventure on my own without you taking most of the responsibility for the planning. I wanted to make you happy!”

“It never occurred to you to ask me if I even wished to go on a pointless journey?”

Ori deflated and looked sad. “I don’t view rebuilding Moria as pointless. And I remember stories of you travelling far and wide. It seems to me like you’re hesitant on even leaving Erebor nowadays.”

Dwalin's gaze flickered over their neat but homey dining room. “My roaming days are over. We are the dwarves of Erebor and our home is here.”

Ori stepped closer and grasped Dwalin’s large hand and told him softly, “If this is about you fearing you’re going to get old in a heartbeat any day now; I promise you that you can still bend the wilderness to your will out there.”

Dwalin scowled and pulled his hand from Ori’s lose grip which made Ori’s smile fall.

“My aging doesn’t affect my decision to simply enjoy Erebor.”

They went to bed without reconciliation that night and lay with their backs turned towards one another. This was uncommon in their relationship, and Dwalin could barely sleep for all the thoughts that came to him. He also realized that he felt oddly hollow absent the usual goodnight kiss.

***

In the morning, Dwalin was in a better, calmer mood. The rest had been needed last night, and he decided to broach the subject again with Ori like matured dwarves. He aimed for a strategy of persuasion to make Ori see sense and not go off into the blue.

He had left the bed early, leaving his lover behind in the warm blankets, to arrange breakfast. Once he was seated and digging into steaming buns and chunks of cheese, Ori appeared in the doorway. He wore a green robe over his night shirt and his red strands were tangled in a disheveled way that stirred desire inside Dwalin.

He gave the dwarf a careful smile as to show that no resentment on his behalf remained this morning, and Ori visibly relaxed; his shoulder lowering and a hand coming up to rub at his sleepy eyes.

“Good morning,” Dwalin greeted in a rumble and Ori inched away from the doorpost and towards the laden table.

“Mornin’.”

They indulged in the day’s first meal and afterwards Ori offered to help Dwalin wash up the dishes. If they were overly polite and formal, well, no-one except them would see it.

As he dried a tin plate, Dwalin couldn’t contain himself any longer. He put down the towel and braced himself on the counter beside the sink with water from their local well.

“Ori, let me provide for you here in Erebor. I am of good lineage. And you are a marvelous match for me. You are safe with me. Why are you so eager to gamble everything you have for a deserted mine?”

Ori drew a deep breath and his hands stilled in the soapy water. Dwalin lifted one of his wet hand and caressed the unscarred knuckles with his lips.

“You are my One. You belong with me.”

Ori frowned at him. “It sounds as if you see me as your possession. As if you own me and decide over me.”

Dwalin was horrified. “I have never treated you as a mere possession! But did you not pledge your love and yourt heart to me once?”

“You doubt my ability to handle things on my own.” It wasn’t a question but Dwalin intended to explain anyway.

“You’re still a laddie. You can’t survive in the wild, especially without a proper weapon of choice.”

“I'm well over a hundred years old. Besides, Oin doesn’t have a weapon either, just his staff, but I don’t see you accusing him of being helpless. Well, I profoundly disagree with you. I did learn during the quest for Erebor how to swing hammers.”

“We’re not taking about Oin now; we’re talking about you. And it was luck, and my watchful eyes that kept you alive, my wee scribe. You are not meant for fighting,” Dwalin reminded his lover and gestured at his slight form, not as an insult but as a sound observation.

Ori paled, and then fury claimed his features. “So come with us and protect me, then! Like you did in the Company.”

“You speak nonsense just to rile me up,” Dwalin dismissed tiredly which was a mistake for Ori flinched and staggered back. Dwalin nearly bit his own tongue in regret, but he did feel that way.

“You think I’m a silly dwarfling?” Ori asked with a disbelieving voice and Dwalin pulled at his own beard in frustration at being cornered by his own words. He decided to not say anything else and make the situation worse. This didn’t please Ori who hugged his knitted middle and spun around, and before he knew it, Dwalin could hear the echoes of Ori’s soft boots in the direction of the main entrance to their home.

"Ori, I know you're not a wee bairn!" Dwalin shouted, though in vain because Ori slammed the door shut behind him as he left for work and let Dwalin take care of the rest of the dishes. Dwalin broke two plates and one glass bowl out of boiling anger and a distracted mind.

***

The two quarreling dwarves were separated for a whole day.

That evening, Ori sat him down in the fireplace room in their comfortable couch with a heap of soft and bouncy pillows that Dori had made as a gift when they moved in together. The red-haired dwarf grasped Dwalin’s hands and explained his reasoning.  

Dwalin would of course listen, but he wasn’t certain he would give in. It became clear that Ori wanted to document Khazad Dum.

“No-one knows for sure how the mines look, what improvements and reconstructions that have been done since one hundred years ago. I have to preserve that lost knowledge. Come with me.” Ori's eyes sparkled with enthusisam at the prospect of hidden knowledge and documents within that mountain. Any other time, Dwalin would be amused and happy for his One's obvious interest, but not when it entailed Ori leaving him as if he didn't matter. Not that Dwalin would confess that straight out.

“I have an honoured position here as Thorin’s vanguard, as you know.” Dwalin almost chuckled at the irony. To think that Dwalin was the one ready to settle down and Ori the one wanting to explore the world. But then again, his lover was a young dwarf with a restless soul apparently. “We have made a home here, Ori. We have comforts in abundance. I want you by my side.”

“I won’t apologize for seeking another adventure,” Ori protested and suddenly stood up and was about to turn away when Dwalin flew up from the comfortable seat and seized him by the collar and spun him around to face him again.

“Don’t leave when I’m talking to you! And the last adventure nearly cost half of the Company’s lives! Are you prepared to press your luck again and challenge death so obviously?” he snarled and Ori put his hands against his chest and pushed himself free.

“We’re not at war anymore!” Ori roared before taking heaving breaths. Then his features softened and Ori attempted to coax with him.

“Khazad Dum is empty and abandoned. Passers-by have reported that the mountain is silent. We can go and reclaim it.”

With the memories of the quiet Erebor many years ago, despite it harboring a fire-drake, Dwalin muttered with bitter experience, “Silence on a battlefield doesn’t have to mean true conquest, Ori.”

Creatures could be dwelling in dark places, waiting for the enemy to lower their guard. Dwalin rounded on Ori and consciously loomed over the defiant scribe.

“At least I am not the one looking for danger,” he hissed and watched Ori pale.

"I fought in the Battle of Five Armies as well, remember?" he stuttered. Dwalin closed his eyes at the sudden pain in his body. Of course he remembered that battle, just as he remembered all the battles and skirmishes he had fought in.

But on the plains below Erebor, he had thought they were all doomed. Heaps of bodies. Slicing through orcs and goblins and beasts until his arms throbbed and felt heavy. Deflicting one arrow aimed at Thorin by tossing a small axe in its way, only to hear a moment later a cry when his King was pierced by a spear in his side.

Seeing Fili and Kili struggle madly to reach their uncle and protect him even when their armour had been damaged or cut off; leaving them just as vulnerable. The rash nephews went into the fray and all but protected their uncle with their bodies. And Fili and Kili had too been wounded.

Dwalin had been the one to fight off any hissing enemy who circled the injured Durins. And he hadn't been able to look behind at Thorin and allow the scum to advance. He was the last dwarf between his royalties and the dark creatures in that particular spot on the giant battlefield. He was afraid, as he was hindered to glance over his shoulder, that he was defending corpses and not still alive dwarves. He had also feared for Ori in that moment, and promised himself that if he lived through this cursed war, he would officially ask to court the dwarf he suspected was his true One.

In the end, the Durins had prevailed and the orcs pushed back until they fled to their dirty holes in mountains far away. Dwalin had found an exhausted and shocked Ori in a healing tent with only a small gash on his head that made blood smear his hair.The war changed into peace and Thorin assumed the throne in a grand ceremony and his eyes weren't cloudy anymore from dragon sickness.

But Dwalin remembered the war. And he remembered the blood on Ori. How close he had been to lose his One.

"I know you fought valiantly. But we were all defending ourselves from orcs and wargs. And I saw the cost for your lost innocence. My ruby, are you ready to seek out danger and pay the bitter price?"

Ori lifted his chin defiantly even as his lips trembled. "Where would we be without wander's lust, courage, and hope? We reclaimed Erebor from a dragon so I'm sure we can restore an empty mind to its former glory. Dwalin, we can win so much on this adventure."

Devastated by Ori’s decision no matter his opinion, Dwalin blurted, “Are you deranged now?”

“You don’t have to insult me,” Ori pointed out with an icy voice Dwalin had never heard before. Ori lifted a hand and began massaging his neck as he stretched in an indifferent and detatched way as if they weren't engaged in a heated discussion. "I'm weary. I'm going to bed." Dwalin's jaw worked as he tried to think of other reasons for Ori to stay. Because in his heart, Dwalin truly didn't want to leave Erebor. He was content. And his One wasn't. Ori even seemed so adventrous that he disregarded even natural self-preservation. No sensible dwarf would gamble all his riches away for the faint teasing of an already lost cause.

That evening, Dwalin left the warm hearth in the fireplace room to die as he went out to grab an ale at a tavern nearby. One ale turned into four. He wasn't much of a drinker, but enjoyed a pint now and then for the flavour and company of friends. This time however, it was mostly dread at going to bed beside an awake Ori that kept him in a corner in the rowdy establishment.

Once he did leave the tavern and made it home, he shrugged off the boots already in the hallway just inside their home in order to not disturb his sleeping gemstone.

When Dwalin finally lifted the fur and slid into bed, he heard on the regular and fast breathing beside him that Ori was not asleep. But the little scribe had curled up on his side and faced the wall instead of Dwalin. Suddenly thankful for the ale in his body, Dwalin let his eyes droop and fell asleep almost not worrying over the fact that neither dwarf seemed to budge or even apologize for the harsh words thrown at the other.

In the next morning, Dwalin's head pounded and he woke late. Ori had left the house without even shaking him to inform him of the time. And when Dwalin's squinting eyes stopped being blurred, he saw the stains on Ori's pillow. Dry tears, from the night before.

***

The honoured Dwalin son of Fundin and Ori brother of Dori had fought before, but never like this.

This argument lasted for a week until they simply stopped speaking to each other.

Dwalin realized that this disagreement consisted of many levels and wouldn’t be solved with a few apologizes and kisses like their quarrels about when it was time to wash their clothes and where Dwalin’s haphazardly scattered boots and Ori’s errand balls of yarn should be.

No, this was Ori fighting for his freedom; to break free from his bond with Dwalin, and Dwalin not letting him go.

A fortnight later saw Balin, Oin, and Ori of the legendary Company strapping bedrolls to their bags and make the very last preparations in the large hall just inside Erebor as a dawning sun rose. Oin had read some signs and come to the conclusion that Moria’s glory would be restored once more if they left now.

King Thorin and his heirs had already given the quest their blessings in an official ceremony that required Dwalin's presence. Not since the long wandering of the wilderness after Smaug had taken Erebor had he looked so grim. When Thorin left the group of travellers to say goodbye to their kin and friends without the presence of a King, a chatter developed in the hall and dwarves went here and there to give each other last embraces and gifts of food. All Dwalin saw as he remained where he had stood when Thorin spoke was the poor state of the group that would dare make a colony in Moria.

Some miners looking to make a personal fortune after years of toiling in Erebor, diplomats and merchants that hoped to improve trading relations with towns nearby in the western Eridor and the southern Rohan. A handful of constructors and carpenters were counting their tools one more time just in case, and sturdy blacksmiths carressed the faces of their women and tugged their dwarflings' braids playfully. No professional warrior among them and they lived on hopes and dreams that a quiet mountain would be peaceful and filled with riches. Dwalin would like to think so too, but he knew from experience that nothing was ever easy.

A fat, old, and familiar dwarf with completely white hair approached him. His older brother Balin wore his burgundy travelling tunic and had a sword in his belt. But Dwalin knew that the aging dwarf suffered from stiff joints in his fingers and arms. Balin made to stand on his toes to reach Dwalin but the warrior dwarf realized the intention and met Balin halfway to press their foreheads together.

When Balin stepped back, he regarded Dwalin with a long, sad stare. Dwalin tilted his head in question and Balin's chest rose and fell in a large sigh.

“I fear you are making a mistake, brother.”

Dwalin replied sullenly, “Balin, Moria is lost and ruined. You know the saying: Only when your family is guarded and your halls are prosperous should you feast. Even though I believe that I someday will have to say I told you so; I nonetheless want to be proven wrong. Keep yourself safe.”

Balin lifted his head and peered at him. “And what of Ori? You won’t request of me to keep him safe?”

Dwalin looked forward over his brother's head and saw a majority of the travellers lift their belongings and fasten their straps. “He has made his choice to leave my arms. He will have to learn how to fight for himself, just like any dwarf travelling through the wilderness.”

Balin shook his head and mumbled without glee, "Dwalin, I love you, but you are one of the most stubborn dwarves I've met, and that's not a compliment."

Dwalin drew a deep breath and bowed his head at his brother in fare well. “Good luck, Balin.”

Then the large warrior dwarf looked around for a young dwarf in knitted clothes and detected him not far from Oin who was now being embraced by Gloin.

As Dwalin approached the scribe, he noticed the dark circles marring the youth’s face, proving his lack of sleep last night. Foolish lad to not make good use of the last night for some time spent in a comfortable bed, Dwalin thought darkly, not acknowledging that Ori’s lack of sleep might have something to do with his own absence from their bed the enitire night.

He had trained and practiced fighting throughout the night, until the break of dawn when the rest of Erebor came alive.

“I missed you in our bed,” Ori remarked quietly, brushing an errand strand from his freckled forehead and Dwalin’s jaw worked.

“It isn’t going to be our bed from now on; only my bed,” he replied gruffly and ignored how Ori’s careful smile fell.

“Dwalin, don’t let us part with anger in our veins.” Large eyes deplored Dwalin to brighten, to give his support to the mission. Dwalin folded his arms and looked over Ori’s shoulder, steadfast and scowling.

“Your party is leaving.”

His face was stern and Ori hefted the packing over his shoulder and chewed on his lip before turning and joining the company. Ori’s steps faltered as he walked through the gate of Erebor, and when he looked over his shoulder to glance back one last time with hope in his quivering heart, Dwalin had already left the hall and wasn’t to be seen, even though the warrior dwarf concealed himself behind a pillar, spying on his departing lover without qualms.

Dwalin desperately wanted to hold Ori close to his chest and caress his milky white, smooth cheek where the beard didn’t grow. But he wouldn’t give into the temptation and give Ori the satisfaction of knowing how much he had hurt Dwalin by persisting on leaving.

Dwalin felt nausea upset his insides when the small figure in the sunlit entrance disappeared from view and he stalked to his training quarters and spent the rest of the day sparring fiercely with other guards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wahhh!!! The sad is coming, everybody! I hope you're enjoying the story nevertheless and that you understood that both Ori and Dwalin have a point but are also hurting each other.  
> A few notes of info for you: I recently discovered that bairn is an Old English/Scottish word for child, which is so cool considering a child in my native language (Swedish) is called barn. I love related languages! So I had to make Dwalin say that.  
> Also, as far as I know, the parents of Ori, Nori, and Dori are unknown so therefore their full name will be brothers of X.  
> The saying Dwalin says to Balin is a Khuzdul/Dwarven proverb which suited Dwalin's thoughts at the time in my opinion.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A king's advice.

**Chapter 3**

**  
Inspiring song: Goodbye My Lover – James Blunt**

It may be over but it won't stop there,  
I am here for you if you'd only care.  
You touched my heart you touched my soul.  
You changed my life and all my goals.

_Year 2989 (Campaign for Moria, Ori 124, Dwalin 247)_

A moon after Ori’s departure, Dwalin was wanted at the Royal Palace in Erebor.

It was unusual for him to walk through the elegantly carved corridors that led him deeper and higher within the mountain where the rock was steady and the climate pleasant all year round. The mountain could preserve warmth from fires in the winter without a wind to make the inhabitants freeze, and in the summer the stone emanated coolness against heat waves outside. Of course the center of the mountain was reserved for its ruler and his court.

Dwalin shifted under the sleeveless tunic he wore, uneasy at the loss of weight since he had been requested to leave his armour and weapons at home. Thus, there would be no official ceremony as far as he knew, so King Thorin most likely didn’t intend for him to stand guard and protect the royal family.

He supposed he felt a little vulnerable and exposed without his warrior gear. Also, the knowledge that he is not formally on duty as a vanguard makes it easier for his mind to supplement him with tempting thoughts on a certain red-haired dwarf. Clenching his fists helped somewhat as he made his muscles flex and felt the strength in them. His body itself was a lethal weapon if he ever faced a situation without weapons.

Dwalin turned a corner and faced a large stairway, intimidating in its size, which would lead to Thorin’s personal quarters. Dwalin bent his head and ascended, resilient like a pony, not letting himself lose his breath from the many steps. At the top, a servant met him and guided him to a pair of sturdy oak doors before leaving him.

Dwalin cleared his throat, ran a hand over his beard as small gestures of preparing himself for his meeting with the king. Not that Thorin required much of him, old companions as they were, but Dwalin wanted to show him some respect. He knocked rapidly on the doors and waited. The door swung open and it was Thorin himself who opened. The king was frowning; never a good sign.

Dwalin bowed to him but then Thorin stepped forward and pressed his forehead to Dwalin’s; a familial greeting. Thorin mumbled, “It’s been a while, my friend.”

“Apologies.  If I have offended you, it wasn’t my intent.” Thorin looked at him with a reproachful expression before motioning at his fireplace room.

“Sit with me in the armchairs.”

Dwalin lowered himself carefully on the fine furniture with velvet pillows and contemplated Thorin in his private habitat. The king wore no crown in here, and his hair splayed over his chest and shoulders. It pleased Dwalin to see how the royal Durin coal hair still struggled against the advancing gneiss that lay like small silver creeks on the dark locks.

Thorin's beard was a little longer than how he used to keep it before he reclaimed his kingdom, and adorned with braids and heirlooms from the treasury; braid clasps with ruby's forming his rune, and beads of clean and hardy steel surrounding some tresses.

Thorin did wear his usual boots, but instead of a cloak and a splendid robe he was dressed in a pair of brown breeches and a simple blue tunic with loosened lacing on the top so his chest hair showed. The king was comfortable and private in this moment, although his serious expression hinted at something troubling him.

Dwalin waited for his friend to start, and in time Thorin did, with a concerned tone.

“It’s been a moon. I expect Balin’s group has reached Moria and settled inside the mountain by now. There must be a batch of letters and reports moving across the plains to Erebor by now.”

Thorin’s blue gaze wandered from Dwalin’s tattooed scalp to his boots and remained there.

“You and Ori. Is there any chance of you working out your differences and becoming friends again?” Thorin wondered and Dwalin leaned back in the armchair with a huff.

“He’s still gone, isn’t he? So he obviously doesn’t mind my feelings,” he delivered sharply and watched Thorin’s turn his head to stare at the crackling fire instead.

“My friend, it pains me to see you so hurt and bitter. Perhaps if you were to take the first step and send him a letter, asking how Moria is looking…”

“I don’t care to talk about him or Moria,” Dwalin muttered. He had thought of Ori. Constantly. He was on edge and always expected Ori to show up in the strangest of places, but his One never did. It was a bitter lesson to find out that the presence, and consequently the absence, of a person could matter so much to him.

Whereas Dwalin before had been content, smiling, and levelheaded, he now was impatient, scowling, and short-tempered. The new guard recruits in the training range often suffered the brunt of his anger. He also felt a need to protect, without having anything to actually protect whenever he wasn't on duty as Thorin's body guard. Dwalin's One was gone and had left him behind.

***

Thorin gestured goodheartedly with his hand. “Let us change the subject. I really summoned you for a purpose. I need your advice. Fili’s future. I have no need for a queen since I already have named my heirs and brought them up as such, but a time will come when Fili becomes King and he will have to marry and produce princes and princesses. And the lad has begun expressing thoughts on having a live with a woman. He is ready to marry.”

“How can I help in this?”Dwalin asked silently.

“Should I follow ancient traditions and search for a suitable lady amongst the noble families? I do know there’re some lovely lasses in the clans of Ironfist, Blacklock, and Stonefoot. There could be a good match somewhere for Fili, and a marriage would strengthen our bond to dwarf kingdoms and important settlements far away.”

Dwalin sensed a hesitation and said slowly, “But?”

Thorin sighed and lifted his hand to rub his creased forehead. “Should I ignore tradition and let the lad decide for himself? We live in a strange time and the world is changing.”

“Would you accept it if Fili presented to you a lass from a common origin?”

Thorin tapped his fingers on his knee in frustration. “I don’t know! Mahal, I abhor being in this torture device! There’s advantages and disadvantages either way.” “Have you broached this with your nephew?” “No, I had hoped to come to a conclusion and appear less indecisive and fractured.” Thorin grimaced ruefully.

Dwalin’s brows bent in query. “What is of uttermost importance to you concerning this subject?”

Thorin lifted his blue eyes and looked at Dwalin. His response was instant and sure.

“Fili’s happiness.”

Dwalin tilted his head. “Then it looks to me as if you have your decision. Diplomatic relations are not as valuable to you as your nephew. So let him decide for himself and thus you’ll not cause yourself any grievance. Introduce him to lasses from Erebor as well as from dwarfish cities far away. See if anyone sparks his interest, wins his affection and then let the two develop a relationship. Fili is a clever lad. He’ll know how to choose wisely and also allow his heart to speak, just as you just did, Your Majesty.”

“I thank you for providing me with valued advice.” Thorin drew a deep breath as if summoning courage before he added, “If only you could listen to you king and friend’s advice as well regarding reaching out to Ori.”

Dwalin stood up and emitted with a tight voice, “May I be dismissed, Your Majesty?”

He was angry with his friend. Thorin had no right to interfere with Dwalin’s private quarrel with one young, foolish dwarf who was too stubborn for his own good. Especially when Dwalin had asked him not to broach the subject again. Besides, hadn’t the king more important things to do than meddle with the love life of his guard?

Thorin moved up from his seat as well and his jaw worked before he spoke. “You may. Goodbye for now.”

Dwalin bowed but his eyes bore into Thorin who looked back with an undeterred gaze but might have blushed beneath the thick beard.Thorin knew he had overstepped.

Then the warrior dwarf turned and stalked out of the palace, happy to leave it. Oddly enough, the journey back down several stairs and towards lighter parts of the mountain felt heavier and darker than during his walk to Thorin's rooms.

***

At some point in the following week, Dwalin couldn't deny that Ori's departure had affected him. It first became apparent when he spent the last hour before sundown sparring with the young aspirants amongst the guard. He was supposed to wear them out until they managed to form the muscles tand skill hey required for the job, and Dwalin took his work seriously.

He ducked easily to avoid the swinging axe, rolled on the ground until he was at the beginner's back, jumped up and punched him in the unprotected area where his meaty shoulder met the neck, using the hilt of his own sword to enhance the impact. The hit sent the lad flat on the ground and he howled and gripped his shoulder with a few curses leaving his dry lips.

"You'd be dead by now if I'd been a foe," Dwalin sneered and walked past the disgraced dwarf with sure steps. He was barely perspirating. The lads had much to be taught until they could compete with his prowess and stamina. Dwalin spun around and adressed the sullen group of unscarred but daring dwarves who wanted a place at his side in the squad.

"And you lot! What kind of soldiers would you be if you fail to help your fallen brother?" He pointed with his sword at the curled up dwarf on the dusty ground. "Help him up, assess his wounds, and protect him if enemies are swarming the place. Remember, if one link breaks in the chain, it'll be easy for orc packs to waylay the Royal family. Your lack of solidarity could cost your King's life."

"But Mr. Dwalin, isn't a guard easier to replace than royalty..." one of the more snarky brats began but wisely bit his tongue when Dwalin sent him a withering glare.

"You are a unit of warriors, fighting for the same goal. It's your duty to fight together, keep every dwarf alive in your company lest the King is left with one, selfish, dumb dwarf who wouldn't know that a large number is important against attackers."

Awkwardly, clearly with reluctant movements due to their bruises and painful muscles, the group inched closer to their friend and reached down to haul him up and dust the sand from his armour. Dwalin was already sheathing his sword in his belt and sent a look at the orange sun that was visible in the open main gates to the great hall of Erebor. It was time to dismiss the lads and let them go to the soldier quarters to eat and nurse their bruises before sleep.

"Attention!" he called and heard how they scrambled to form lines behind his back. He shut his eyes for a moment. Too inexperienced, too noisy, too careless. But at least they were young and dedicated to endure the training for years to become the elite of King Thorin's forces.

Dwalin turned around and crossed his arms, slowly scanning the ragged group who had only been his charges for two weeks. He did find pleasure in training new guards and knew they would benefit from his tutoring in time, but the first time was always trying for both parties.

"Bal, Remli, and Ogain; you did well today. The rest of you have to consider if your backs are as important to you as the rest of your bodies. I refer to your inability of parrying blows and keeping an eye on your opponent's next intended move. I expect better from you tomorrow. Now go and rest."

He waved a hand and the dwarves shuffled away from the sandy training area. He sighed and allowed his shoulders to drop. Some days he could think of nothing but throttling them. That was the first sign that something was wrong with him. Before, he had never been so short-tempered with recruits, nor as fierce when he sent them sprawling to the ground. He was using the lads to ventilate his own rage that brewed inside him. That was wrong of him and would only serve to make the lads resent him instead of respecting him.

Dwalin shook his head and scrubbed a rough hand over his warm face. He contemplated the new charges. Neither of them were truly terrible despite his remarks giving that impression. But he realized there was an aspect missing in his current life. There was no longer anyone at home to tell amusing stories about the promising but clumsy recruits. Without anyone to hear his feelings on his work with, Dwalin's occupation seemed less important to him. Ori would certainly not wait for him after a long day with a steaming dinner in a pot over the fireplace, wouldn't welcome him with hugs and kisses on his jagged ear, wouldn't hear his stories and give him intelligent replies on how to handle the lads so they didn't end up hating him.

Dwalin was on his own, and he despised that.

He wandered slowly to his home, already dreading what would meet his eyes there: badly tended embers in the cold ashes, empty log baskets, extinguished lanterns and candles, dirty laundry on the floor and rumpled sheets in his bed from a far from good reason. The silence in his home crawled under his skin and reminded his tired body over and over until he either muttered pathetic things to himself, sang sad songs, or went to sleep, that Ori was gone and Dwalin would have to adapt.

No eager dwarf would seek him out as he removed his boots to indulge him on his fascinating day with meetings with scholars and ambassadors. Dwalin had forgotten when he had been with Ori how many chores there were that needed to be done, even if a household only contained one occupant. He and Ori had always shared the tasks and helped each other if the vigour was waning after a hard day's work.

"Where might I find the section with the maps of Erebor's mine system, Mr...?"

"Kali, at your service. Just follow my direction. Go left, past the section for historical tomes, turn right and you'll find a small spiral staircase. Ascend to the third floor and there you'll find the room dedicated to the maps."

Distracted by the voices, Dwalin looked to the left and discovered with increasing annoyment that he was walking by the library with its open doors and clear view of the counter where a blonde youth with a short beard divided in two sections instructed a visitor in a grey, practical tunic and with calloused hands which suggested he was a foreman for a working unit in the mines.

Dwalin gritted his teeth and clenched the hilt of his sword hard until the metal groaned. To see a replacement on Ori's spot was an unpleasant experience, as the red-haired dwarf's absence became painfully clear. Dwalin snorted disdainfully at the whole building and picked up his pace until he was nearly running down the street and making other dwarves quickly part way for him in fear of getting trampled by the tall dwarf with a murderous glare.

He nearly let out a bark of laughter at the silly dwarf in the library. As if anyone could replace Ori just like that and grasp the complexity of the library’s system. As if anyone could be as good as or outshine Ori. Dwalin growled moodily and stalked towards his dark, cold, untidy home.

He felt drained of happiness.

***

As the seasons went by, letters began to arrive from Ori in some trading parties and caravans that moved from Moria to Erebor two or three times a year.

Dwalin read the letters, many times over sometimes, as he sat in a warm armchair in the late evenings before his fireplace that shone a light on the neat words of the scribe.

Ori had ever since writing the chronicles on their first adventure together on the way to Erebor been a good storyteller, and his letters were very informative. But Dwalin never replied, even when Ori expressed hope that he would, and during those nights he always went to bed with bitter, blaming thoughts muddling his mind. It was Ori’s fault; he had melted his metal so now he had to hammer it and accept the consequences of his actions.

***

_Greetings Mr. Dwalin. A few moons have passed since my departure and our company has begun establishing homes inside Moria. The mountain is silent except for us, but the prospect of silver ore deposits within the stone should give other dwarves cause to move here soon. The halls are magnificent in their sheer size, but demand reparation and restoration. Our work teams are always busy. I have secured private quarters above the Second Hall. You can see how my rooms look in the sketch below. Yesterday I received my own desk from our talented carpenter Frár. I’m sitting there now composing this letter despite Balin’s insistent request I begin writing about our journey and our forming of the new colony in the enormous, heavy tome that tells Moria’s history. The last note was made many years ago, but thankfully I have several hundreds of empty pages to use before the book ends. I sincerely hope that you are well. It pains me that we parted with unkind words regardless of our fondness for each other. Your face is the last thing I imagine in the darkness before I fall asleep. Yours truly. Ori_

_***  
_

_We have found mithril! And lots of it. Balin wants to celebrate with mead and ale and steak. […] I miss you sometimes so it feels like my heart will burst. I find comfort in the thought that you like living in Erebor, training the recruits and protecting the Royal Family. Balin curses you some days, but I shan’t report what he says because my letters will never have wicked words against you. […]_

_***  
_

_[…] my hand bothers me after writing day out and day in. I forget to rest it sometimes. It was always you who reminded me of taking care of my hands. Not that I have any complaints against my work, for it is fascinating to attempt to write our chronicles like the dwarves of old did. I have myself to blame for spending the rest of my time drawing instead of resting, but everything beautiful compels me, and there’s always new parts of the mountain being discovered and mapped, or old parts being mended and changed.[…] I’ve found a friend in a miner called Flói. He’s young like I, but far less calm. Imagine Kili but bigger, stronger, and consuming candied fruit until he’s wild with excitement. Please reply and tell me of Erebor and your life. Apart from private letters, we only receive formal messages that might be polite but not very elaborated every time messengers or trading parties arrive from Erebor, Ered Luin, or the Iron Hills. Your devoted Ori_

_***  
_

_Greetings Mr. Dwalin. I’m afraid I might have given you the impression that my friend Flói holds my deepest affection. This however is not true. He makes me laugh but not anything else. You should reply to me and make my worry vanish entirely. My heart does belong to you. […]_

_***  
_

_Please write me a note at least. It’s Durin’s day here now. I’m thinking of you. Do you ever think of me?_

_***  
_

_[...] I will use bolder words to prove my love to you still. I miss your scent, your touch, your warmth. The winters are colder here than in Erebor: I think it’s the northern position of Moria, and it’s place beneath the ever snowy Caradhras. I miss, no; I yearn for your body beside mine in the bed. [...]  
_

_***  
_

_I was unusually sullen yesterday. The reason for my vile mood was that I woke up and couldn’t remember your laugh. Write to me and describe it, please. The mountain is strange. We hear echoes from its depths. Whispers in our dreams; speaking of Durin’s Bane. It’s a mystery._

_***  
_

_Please write._

_[...]  
_

_Please write…_

_[...]  
_

_Please…_

*** _  
_

_Year 2994 (Five years after Ori's departure for Moria, the year for Moria's fall)_

When the next caravan arrived, the last one leaving Moria even if no-one knew it then, it contained no letter to Dwalin. He didn’t know whether that was a blessed or cursed day. Five long years had come and gone since Ori left Dwalin. Dwalin began to accept that Ori would never return to his arms as long as he didn’t apologize for a slight he hadn’t committed. And there they were; two halves of One living in two distant mountains.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh-oh. Seems like everything is falling apart, according to my plan... You'll soon get to know Ori's POV. I would be pleased by comments to hear what you think. :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fall of Moria.

**Chapter 4**

 

**Inspiring song: Run - Snow patrol (or the version with Leona Lewis)**

Light up, light up

As if you have a choice

Even if you cannot hear my voice

I'll be right beside you, dear

 

_Year 2994 (Fall of Moria, Ori 129, Dwalin 252)_

Drums sounded from outside and penetrated the thick door with their dull beats.

Amongst the excited screeching from the dark creatures, some words were more audible than others. Ghâsh, they cried. Their word for fire, which they chanted to the dum -dum- dum.

Moria had fallen.

Ori’s hands shook as he brushed his dripping fringe off his grimy forehead so to not stain the gash across Frár’s throat. Ori was wasting their scarce supply of medicine on a dying dwarf on the floor who had been dragged back from the Second Hall to the Chamber of Mazarbul, or the Chamber of Records, by his warrior brothers who had refused to leave him to die at the hands of goblins.

But Ori wanted to tend to the fatally wounded dwarf because it felt right to do so in this desperate hour of their doom. He had already prompted Náli to take his knitted scarf and his thick jumper so to stay warm. Ori knew Náli was injured even if the other dwarf refused to let it show.

While kneeling, Ori reached for the last roll of bandages in the bag Oin had left behind for their benefit. Ori’s heart had been pained two days ago when he wrote in the Book of Mazarbul how Oin, the respected healer, had fallen amongst others in an attempt to escape Moria and get help from settlements nearby and break the siege the goblins were responsible for.

Nearly every dwarf in that party had been slayed, and the witnesses who returned to the chamber were gravely wounded and wouldn’t have made it on the challenging mountain paths on their own. It was with a heavy heart that Ori realized no-one outside Moria would know about their predicament and come to their rescue. It didn’t take a warrior to assess the situation and realize that their end had come.

The scribe had abandoned the battered but still whole book in a corner after his last note about Oin’s group. His priorities lay elsewhere at the moment.

Ori’s teeth cluttered when he found his pocket knife in his belt and cut through the white cloth, sparing some for another dwarf. He then proceeded to press it against the slashed throat that bled steadily but not draining Frár immediately. The carpenter was suffering and struggling to draw breath. Whenever he gasped, Ori saw how his teeth were stained red. He did his best to give the dwarf courage and comfort.

“I’ve written down your story in the chronicles, Frár. You will be remembered as an honourable dwarf.”

Frár managed a small grin but his eyes were sad. His throat worked beneath Ori’s hold in preparation to speak.

“You’re so young, Ori. When I’m gone, I don’t care about my legacy in tales. I care about the family I’m leaving behind, in Erebor. But I thank Mahal that I didn’t bring them along, even as I ventured away to find gold and prosperity and dreams.”

Frár blinked and turned his gaze to the ceiling, mumbling softly, “When you’re older, I hope you’ll realize that fame and fortune are worthless compared to love. To dwarves, nothing is more important than family.”

Ori bit his lip and looked down to see the dressing being slowly soaked through with more blood.

“Maybe I do know that,” he whispered and squeezed Frár’s weak and cold hand. The red-haired scribe felt that longing for his One deep inside. He wanted to be enwrapped in Dwalin’s strong, safe arms once more. What he regretted most was his ended contact with his lover who refused to even write him a short note. If they had reconciliated through letters, maybe Dwalin could have come visiting. Ori didn’t regret making the journey to reclaim Moria, but that didn’t mean he wanted to die trapped in a chamber before his age, without Dwalin or anyone knowing about it.

His lips started to tremble at the thought his brothers and his lover, memories scattered across his mind. He turned his eyes to examine Frár, only to find him dead, still grasping Ori’s hand. Ori let out a tiny sob and carefully pulled his hand from the loose grip before crawling away on the dirty floor and wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his tunic.

A particularly loud crash frightened him and his head jerked to the door on instinct, watching the wood bend and groan from the goblins’ struggle to break it down.

“Flói!” he called with the hoarse tone of a desperate dwarfling and saw how his friend spared some attention for him. Flói was pacing restlessly through the room and dragging a hand through his tresses over and over with a hammer gripped tight in his other hand.

“What?” the young dwarf answered with an almost irritated tone. Ori knew it wasn’t anger aimed at his person; rather stress from the trapped situation.

”Frár is dead.”

The skin beside Flói’s eye twitched. “And what do you want me to do about that?” the young dwarf snapped and Ori shifted so he could clasp his arms around his knees. “I don’t know,” he mumbled and studied his frayed boots.

At last Flói seemed to recognize his own behaviour and his shoulders slumped, hammer hanging limply at his side. “He went in peace, aided by comfort from you. Frár fought valiantly for our sake and his sacrifices will not be forgotten. You did all you could, Ori.”

“How long will it take them to breach the door?” Ori wondered, trusting the thick oak wood held together by iron and barred with sturdy logs but knowing nevertheless that no-one had ever intended for this room to be a stronghold against raving enemies. Flói sighed.

“They are not intelligent enough to form a unit with the same purpose. They won’t think of using a battering ram to force the door open. We have half a day, I reckon. Use the time to rest. We are the last defenders of Moria, and we will go down with a fight.”

Ori was about to reply when a thunderous bang shook the occupants in the room and every dwarf still living jerked their faces towards the door. Intimidating holes had appeared with splinted wood being the only things that stood between the trapped dwarves and their enemy. The dwarves got up to their feet and everyone lifted what weapon they had, readying themselves for the imminent future.

Balin pushed his helmet over his white hair and barked with surprising steel in his voice despite his age, “Armour and shields up! The arrows will come soon from the scum!”

Ori shuddered and glanced at his mentor who stood tall and unyielding like a lonely pine on a hill; defying the environment. The end had come, and Balin was every bit of a son of Fundin; so similar to his younger brother, and Ori’s fear was somewhat dispatched by the displayed strength he was used to. Had been used to. Years ago when he and Dwalin still loved.

It was a pity that Ori was the one still loving a dwarf far away even when said dwarf hated him and had ignored his letters for years. Dwalin’s wraith was something Ori had never imagined would turn against himself, because that wasn’t what he had been taught when Dori told him about One’s and their utter care for one another. Clearly Dwalin didn’t want him anymore. Ori had accepted that, but the pain lingered in his broken heart and as he swept his sorrowful eyes over the dusty floor strewn with blood, weapons, and bodies of fallen friends, he acknowledged that his own end would be a tragic one indeed that shouldn’t be written in the Book of Mazarbul.

Who wanted to read about and weep over a simple scribe whose One had discarded him as if he meant nothing; leaving the scribe to die in an overrun colony amongst dwarves with crushed dreams and increasing horror. That was not a tale fit for legends.

Ori’s ears perceived the alarming war cries of the dark creatures and occasionally yellow eyes or rotten, sharp teeth flashed in the growing holes as the goblins fought each other to hack away the splinter and prepare archers. Ori swallowed and fumbled at his loose tunic with trembling fingers, looking for his slingshot in his belt before remembering that that was a weapon he had carried in another adventure. He bent down and grasped the smooth hilt of his pocket knife that rested between Oin’s now empty medicine bag and the cool body of Frár.

He knew he didn’t stand a chance against raging beasts and yet his mind and body bade him to live a little longer, try more to survive. He didn’t want to die.

A whistle with a dwarvish accent came from his left and when he turned his head almost sluggishly as the time seemed prolonged, a sizeable axe soared through the air and landed at his feet.

“Take it, Ori, and fight!” Flói yelled, his eyes trained on the approaching foes. Ori studied the intricate runes on the shaft but didn’t bend to pick it up. He had once wielded Dwalin’s beloved axe and hit one or two orcs on the hills outside the Misty Mountains. It had been accident rather than skill that he felled the orcs, but Dwalin had smiled approvingly at him all the same later on the Carrock where the great eagles had let them down. That was when their love truly begun, from both parties.

The memories faded and Ori felt cold.

“Ori, please!”

Flói was pleading with him now with furrowed brows and quickened breathing. The poor young dwarf suffered from the amount of tension.

“By Durin’s fires!” Flói suddenly snarled and spun from his spot, beginning to with his shield shove his way through the group of armed dwarves towards Ori, probably tired with his inability to pick up the weapon and filled with a need to personally protect him.

“Flói; hold your tongue and stand your ground!” Balin suddenly commanded with an outraged voice and pointed a gloved finger at the place where the young dwarf had stood a moment ago. Flói halted his steps and concerned eyes flashed over Ori’s figure before he scowled and stomped back to his place. Ori let out a breath he hadn’t been aware he had been holding but then many things happened at the same time.

The holes in the door finally allowed the archers to release their arrows. The last dwarves shouted and huddled together like a wall and Ori was left behind it, stupidly gripping his little knife.

The door gave in from the pressure and a wave of goblins hurled themselves into the room. A violent jerk on his collar made Ori stumble back and choke. It was Balin who hauled him back and tugged on him some more until Balin was backing him into the wall and then mercilessly pushing at his shoulders until Ori´s knees bent and he was being pressed inside a low crevice with space for one small dwarf.

The shocked Ori startled at the feeling of the freezing rock suddenly surrounding him and turned his confused, wide eyes up towards Balin who smiled gently with a fond expression on his face despite the grime that stained his beard and the goblin blood on his armour.

“Be safe, kin of mine,” the elder one mumbled and proceeded to hit his head with a hard gloved fist so Ori lost consciousness and stopped fighting to get out.

***

Ori woke up to stiff joints and sore muscles. The crouched position he found himself in inside a cavern made him frown which caused a headache to pound in his temple and something cracking faintly and pulling on his skin on one side of his head. He lifted his cool hand gingerly and touched his face. Dried blood cakes coated his cheek and stained his prodding fingertips until he pressed a finger against the line where his forehead met his hair. A searing wound on top of a sizeable swelling. That would explain the headache, then.

Still dizzily disoriented, Ori let his head loll to the side, towards the light. The view was gruesome. Eerie silence surrounded him; not even the slightest gush of wind disturbed the chamber. The beautiful chamber which had been turned into a battlefield. Brown, dry blood mingled with still sticky black goblin blood on the stone floor and there where large figures sprawled everywhere.

A painful heartbeat startled Ori into action and thinking as he reckognized the kind of armour on some of the unmoving figures. Fallen dwarves.

Ori gasped, clasped a hand over his mouth as the memories of the ravenous enemy made him reconsider making sounds, and shut his eyes hard. Maybe this had been Balin’s intention all along. To make Ori survive even as everyone else fought until they were killed. But to wake up to this; alone and hurting from his safe position. If anyone had noticed Ori during the fight, they would have seen a dead dwarf with closed eyes and a fresh head wound and left him alone. Ori had irrevocably stayed hidden in small cavern as the goblins had invaded the chamber and hacked away at his friends.

A growing light shining through his lids made Ori wrench his eyes open despite the hollow feeling inside. A clear cone of blue dawn light came through the crafted hole by the ceiling and was reflected on a smooth stone in the middle of the room. Ori hadn’t noticed it because of all the bodies. Ori trembled the whole time as he rocked himself out from the tight fit and some pebbles followed his tunic and cluttered on the floor.

Ori stiffened and his hands were clasping and unclasping nervously. Nothing happened.

Ori took a tentative step, and his hips ached and blood flooding down his numb left thigh. Hesitantly, with moisture filling his face as his body produced tears, lumps in his throat, cold sweat, and snot, he studied the room. Every single one of the colony had been savagely slayed and lay twisted and with agonized expressions. Ori couldn’t help but letting out a small wail as he saw how someone had brutally ripped the breastplate from Frár’s pale corpse and left the carpenter in an unsettling position on the side with his arms bent backwards way his head facing forward; robbed of peace, protection, and respect.

Ori stepped over fallen comrades, stumbled when he discovered Flói’s familiar shield under a stinking goblin. Ori tugged on the shield and made the limp creature slide off. He lifted the heavy weapon away and his face crumpled at the sight of his young friend who had a broken face and staring eyes. After falling to his knees, Ori bit his lip to contain a cry of despair and closed Flói’s eyes with a gentle touch before putting the shield back in place. It had to do as a grave for the miner and brave warrior because Ori didn't have enough rocks to build a proper resting place for any of the fallen dwarves. Also, the noise would alert…

Ori’s head jerked to the door and he saw nothing but darkness. It was only his imagination and dread conjuring red or yellow gleaming eyes and viscious snarls. Echoes from the memory of the siege.

Ori got up from Flói’s side. At that point he was closer to the bluish rock than ever before, and he leaned over it to make out engraved runes.

_Balin, son of Fundin, Lord of Moria_

Ori’s arms shot out and he braced himself heavily on Balin’s grave and wept until his sobs turned hoarse. The thought that he would never again lay eyes on the wise dwarf...

The battle must have raged through at least one day considering the state of the blood, and the goblins must have retreated for a while and then returned if the defenders of Moria had had time to build a proper tomb for their dead leader. Ori felt chilled and wrecked at the thought that his friends had buried the elder son of Fundin while he was still knocked out and safe.

With sudden urge originating from his grief inside, Ori sank to the floor and crept silently on all four away from the massacre towards the open doorway that led to the great hall of Dwarrowdelf. He couldn't bear to stay in the chamber of death and torture any longer. He passed a silent dwarf who sat by Balin’s tomb with his tome in his hands. It was the fallen Náli who held a feather pen in one his pale hand. Náli must have finished what Ori couldn’t due to his unconsciousness. Ori didn’t have the heart to remove the book from Náli’s secure grip. The book had a protector at last who wasn’t hidden away like a helpless dwarfling or failing in his mission to capture the whole history of Moria to the end.

To get his knees chafed and scraped on the rubbles as he crawled on all for through the vast Dwarrowdelf was painful but nothing compared to the turmoil in Ori’s mind where he blamed and cursed himself, and tried to grasp the fact that he was the only surviving dwarf left in Moria and he was in a dangerous place.

He wiped his dribbling nose on a dirty sleeve and his eyes frantically darted around to detect any movement in the darkness. He didn’t wish to alert the goblins and be murdered. His neck hurt when he tilted his head back to watch the ceiling of the great hall. Ori was suddenly stunned by fear and he stopped moving. There were holes in the domes that hadn’t been there before, and the stench of goblins prickled his nose.

He had seen for himeself when the dwarves fled inside the chamber of records just how fast and good climbers goblins were, and so he subdued his tiny sobs and crawled over rubble in the large hall that seemed to stretch on forever, eyes fixed on the ceiling. It was like ducking under a silent beehive and anticipating enraged bees. He barely noticed how his palms and wrist got sliced on shards and began to bleed. But Ori did figure that unless he makes it out fast, the smell of fresh dwarf blood would reach ever hungry beasts who would hunt him down.

At time he reached the other side of the hall and yet he kept crawling, body shivering from fear of being discovered. He found a way he knew led out and followed it, only shifting his position when he was forced to climb down stairs so he could slide down on his backside while barcing himself with sliced hands and feet; employing a low profile on the exposed structure. Smoke mingled with the mountain air and prickled his throat and nose from the fires goblins had lit somewhere nearby. At last Ori's eyes spotted the bridge of Khazad-Dûm and hurried to shuffle over there.

As the scribe began the uneasy crossing, a rumble sounded from below and he made the mistake of looking over the edge. A glowing fire of evil red beneath the narrow bridge that terrified the surviving dwarf. Ori clutched each side of the bridge and shook from an unknown terror that filled him with despair beyond comprehension. All he knew was that he mustn’t look down again, and that Durin’s bane which had haunted the dreams of the Moria dwarves was real. A sob bubbled up inside him and threatened to escape but he had to smother it lest he be discovered.

Somehow Ori managed to not let himself freeze and instead he crawled pathetically across the bridge, tears streaming down his dirty cheeks. He reached the secret eastern entrance to Moria and stumbled outside only to be blinded by morning sunlight. The cold of night hadn't yet been banished by dawn which caused Ori to start to shiver and sweat at the same time, as if chill and heat plagued his flesh equally.

With his arms folded around himself he fled from the cliffs of his now lost home in an eastern direction. He stumbled towards the green he saw at the horizon.

Dazed, exhausted, and scared, the young dwarf cried out his grief over and over as he crawled towards the forest, faintly aware of a festering wound on his wrist where he had cut himself on his escape. He was freezing in his scarce clothing and sometimes he simply sat down under the canopies of leaves and rubbed his stiff fingers together faster and faster as anxiety turned into frenzied panic.

Ori became unaware of his growling stomach and his waning energy as he made his way deeper into the woods. Eventually he couldn't contain himself anymore.

“Mister Dwalin! Mister Dwalin!”

In that moment, when his foolish plea left his chapped lips, something gave inside Ori and he abandoned the formal title on his former lover his mind had supplied him with for the last years. He went for the one name his heart was whispering over and over despite sense.

“Dwalin! Dwalin!” he wailed with a ragged breath until his cries turned into whimpers.

“Where are you? Dwalin, I can’t see you,” Ori exclaimed with a strangled voice as his brown eyes blurred before he collapsed in the outskirts of the woods and curled up into himself on soft moss. There he sobbed until he lost both voice and consciousness. The last thought that crossed his fragile, sorrowful mind was something he was hardly aware of before he closed his eyes.

_I can’t see you_ _._

_***  
_

After his physical wounds had been healed and his mind was sharper, the elves had told him how they had found him barely inside their border. Ori remembered vaguely the first time he spent recovering in a bed at the healer’s house inside the palace of Lothlórien.

He remembered more details about his staying in the healer's house. How his body burned and ached, how his head was pounding and his throat was so sore that only croaking sounds remained. How he had heard the floating faces leaning over him repeaing words in the foreign language with steady voices. Some elves were repeating certain words like mellon, galad, and trauma.

And then, a male, tender voice had brought him from the shadows of his mind and when Ori opened his eyes, he saw the striking, pale silver elf looking him deep in the eyes even as he trembled violently on the soaked mattress.

“Ori, lasto beth nîn, tolo dan nan galad”

At another time, the elf instructed him with a soothing voice when Ori kept crying from the mist in his head and the fear in his heart until the sobs made his belly hurt, ”Losto Ori, sedho, hodo”.

He was fed a cup of boiled water and herbs at one point. It tasted like tea, only not, in a way that Ori couldn’t explain. But the tea wasn’t entirely familiar, and why would it be if he drank Elvish tea?

But just as the hot liquid pooled in his belly and his tongue began to go numb, Ori chased away the impending sleep by suddenly rolling onto his side and hurling over the side of the bed. A gasp and hasty words in a foreign language reached his ears as he threw up the content in his stomach through a burning throat. He felt tears run down his face and his skin felt like fire. Hoarse sobs and whimpers left him between the awful waves of nausea until nothing remained, not even gnawing bile.

He closed his eyes from the sight on the beautiful floor and heaved himself back, choking on tears and bad taste until a flask was pushed into his lips and he parted them to swallow down cool water. Then, a damp cloth was pressed against his clammy face; forehead, cheeks, temples, under his eyes, his neck and even his nape where his hair didn’t grow. At last, the cloth was wiped over his sniveling nose and Ori felt somewhat clean, but still immensely exhausted. But he dared peek through his long lashes and spotted an Elvish shape he couldn’t determine was female or male. In the corner of his eyes, he also noticed the back of one crouching elf who washed the floor. He felt some amount of shame at the trouble he had caused.

“’m sorry,” he mumbled with a raw voice and his fingers twitched anxiously on the fine blanket. A soothing voice hushed him.

“Think nothing of it. But you need to sleep without interruption, dear Ori. Our medicine will help you find sleep absent dreams. Can you try this again?”

The dwarf saw the spoon that was held out and was tempted to shake his head, but the approaching headache in his poor head instructed him to try the tea. After all, it hadn’t tasted bad exactly, but for some reason unknown to him, it had made him vomit all the same.

He whispered with large eyes fixed on the unearthly creature, “One spoon.”

The elf nodded and helped him up with a long arm draped around his back. “One spoon. And do not gulp it down this time. Swallow it in small amounts.”

Ori opened his mouth trustingly to the large spoon by dwarven standards. The tea washed over his tongue again. His throat cramped but with the stubbornness of a dwarf, he forced it to work to his will and swallowed the healing draught. But he wondered why this tea felt so strange and caused such a violent reaction from him.

A graceful smile met him even as a hazy mist swirled into the corners of the room.

“Well done, Ori. Now, sleep.”

Ori exhaled and closed his eyes. He barely felt the shift on the mattress when the elf left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there! I'm so sorry for the long wait! I had most of the chapter already finished, but time flies and my work leaves me knackered every night and weekend so I didn't have the energy to look at my work. But here the update is and you probably won't have to wait as long 'til the next time I update. And we've reached the point where Ori's losing his memory! Expect more Dwalin in the next chapter. And an explanation on the tea reaction from Ori.
> 
> Here's useful info for this chapter: The Elvish words are canon and translates into this: Lasto beth nîn, tolo dan nan galad - hear my voice, come back to the light. Losto Ori, sedho, hodo - 'Sleep Ori, be still, lie still. Oh, and I totally made trauma an Elvish word because it has that ring to it and that's what Ori's suffering from, just like many tortured elves that were captured and tortured by orcs. The names I used for the dwarves in Moria are also Tolkien's work and I've mainly made their fate the same Tolkien wrote, with some variations.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unwanted order.

**Chapter 5**

****Inspiring song:** Shelter - Birdy**

Maybe I had said something that was wrong  
Can I make it better with the lights turned on  
  
Can I be, was I there  
Felt so crystal in the air  
I still want to drown whenever you leave  
Please teach me gently on how to breathe

 

_Year 2995 (Six years since Ori's departure, one year after the fall of Moria, Ori 130, Dwalin 253)_

The years passed. Winters turned to summers and Dwalin served his King and the rest of the Royal Family.

He let his home remain as before, even if it was too big and too furnished for one dwarf who never had guests over. He couldn’t bother to throw out the armchairs, writing desks, and chests he had no use of. However, he did gather what personal possessions Ori had left behind; clothes, books, and trinkets, and dumped them in the lowest drawer in their chest of drawers. With his height, he rarely bent so low to reach things close to the floor and would thus not naturally come by the items.

Dwalin’s everyday life went on, but he definitely felt worn. He suffered from mild sleep deprivation and it tolled on his body and mind. He had come to accept an occasional headache that made him even more hostile.

It was difficult to go to sleep in the evenings unless he had emptied a few cups of ale that numbed his flickering mind. He resolvedly didn’t think about Ori in the nights. Instead his thoughts were concentrated on the current condition of the vanguard and improvements of the security routine around the Royal Family.

There existed no pastime for Dwalin who worked all day, came home to eat something simple, then went to bed and didn’t fall asleep.

When he did manage to catch a few hours of complete rest, dreaded images of Ori fluttered past his closed lids. Sometimes dreams provided him with real memories of the time when he had had his One beside him, and in other dreams he experienced new kisses, new touches, and new provocative positions with his former lover.

Ori accepting his slippery cock in his mouth while watching him with adoring eyes. Dwalin bawdily burying a hand in the back of Ori’s trousers and caressing his bottom as they sat in public, risking to be discovered. Ori pulling him down by a steady hold on his shoulders to kiss him slowly and thoroughly inside the library, behind the counter for the librarians, as Dwalin’s hands kneaded a soft bottom.

Dwalin hated the temptation and hated waking up hard and being forced to choose between ignoring his pulsing length or stroke himself while trying to think of something arousing that wasn’t related to Ori; which was very difficult if he wanted to come. So the lack of sleep was preferred after all.

***

One early autumn day in 2995, he was approached by Gloin in the armory.

Dwalin was scrutinizing the state of each weapon for the guards of Erebor. It was known that even the mightiest kingdom could fall because of one blunt blade not defeating what it was intended to defeat. So far, all the weapons had passed the test and cut clean lines through parchment, linen, and apples.

When Gloin addressed Dwalin, he sounded cheerful.

“Ah, there you are! Leave those axes to someone else already. You are late.”

Dwalin lowered the hand holding a piece of parchment and glared over his shoulder at the man responsible for the treasury and trading of Erebor.

“I would be caught dead before I'm intentionally late to a meeting where I’m expected. A late reinforcement in war could mean complete downfall. However I don’t recall you voicing such requests so I will remain here until you explain more.”

Gloin grasped his belt with both hands and laughed so his red beard bounced on the large belly.

“You never lighten up, do you? Well, I meant to say that for one; Thorin wants to see you this afternoon. Second; you will dine with me and the missus tonight and your presence is mandatory unless you want a feisty woman threatening you with a fire poker. You’ll need a properly cooked meal this evening. And third; you will travel to Moria in the morning.”

At the last statement, Dwalin jerked and spun in a flash and stared at the completely solemn Gloin.

“What kind of a joke is this?” he rumbled but Gloin didn’t lower his steady gaze.

“A serious one. I took the liberty to take the rest of my day off and enter your home and pack provisions, bedroll and your favorite axes.”

Shaken by the surprise, and beginning to feel frustration at the behaviour of the other dwarf, Dwalin scowled.

“Gloin, what’s the bloody meaning of this?” he barked tersely and Gloin challenged him with a smirk.

“You are to go to Moria.”

“I’ve told Thorin I’m not leaving the mountain until my spirit abandons my cooling, stiff body. And I will certainly not go near Moria!”

Now though, Gloin’s features began to darken and his low voice turned concerned.

“Listen, I’ve intercepted rumors from caravans in Erebor and Dale. Traders are unsettled by the ended trading with Moria. They exported the finest mithril but for a short while and now the mountain has been shut down it seems. Why? No-one knows but those who approached the eastern entrance told the others that the outposts weren’t guarded and the gate remained locked. Something has happened in there and the merchants are growing restless and demand we do something about it, if only to show that we still care about a colony that promised to be loyal to Thorin and Erebor.

Whispers have started to spread; mentioning corrupting greed in the miners, and something terrible in the mountain’s deep. Thorin wishes to look into it and he has chosen you as his envoy. You know of course how to talk to your brother over there.”

Dwalin clenched his hands into fists and burst out with rage, “Thorin knows Ori is there and I don’t want to see him again!”

Gloin eyed him with an unimpressed expression. “I will not sit here more years and watch you work your stubborn self into a frenzy like a caged bear instead of visiting Moria already. Enough sulking, Dwalin. You aren’t done with your dealings with that lad even if you refuse to admit it.”

With a guarded expression, Dwalin gruffly replied, “This is not a wise decision for you to make on my behalf, Gloin.”

Gloin countered, “It is just as unwise of you to always train your arms and neglect your legs. They need exercise, so what better than to make a journey to Moria? The opportunity to see Ori and at last settle this quarrel between you is only a bonus.”

“I can’t desert my responsibilities to protect…” Dwalin began to point out when Gloin interrupted.

“Thorin is already informed and has consented to relieve you of your duties and charges. He trusts you to bring him a report of your findings either when you reach Moria, or when you return here. He expects your leave immediately. Especially considering you haven't had one day off for six years!”

Dwalin was well aware of this. He had devoted himself fully to the task of being a great commendable warrior of the vanguard ever since Ori left. It made it easier to not occupy his thoughts on his former lover and their painful separation.

“If this is what my King requests, I shall oblige, but whether I’ll meet Ori or not is my choice alone,” Dwalin stated with finality and Gloin pressed a hand against his red beard, clever gaze contemplating Dwalin.

“I will wager fifty gold coins from my own pocket that you indeed will meet him and speak to him once you’ve been welcomed inside Moria,” he commented and Dwalin scowled and brushed past the other dwarf.

But just as he was about to leave the armory, he hesitated and came to a halt by the open door. Without looking behind his shoulder at Gloin, he quietly asked him, “What if he doesn’t want to see me? I encouraged him to leave, all but threw him out from our home.”

Gloin chuckled dryly. “Me and the missus fight occasionally, but our love overcomes the clash between different opinions on who will bathe Gimli. And time can soothe harsh words when sweet yearning takes their place. You will never forgive yourself if you don’t even bother trying to salvage the relationship. Don’t you think what you and Ori treasured is worth another attempt?”

Dwalin hung his head in defeat, beginning to acknowledge the growing want inside him to make the journey, just to see how Ori was. “I appreciate your advice, Gloin. But he left me and there’s no we anymore.”

Gloin countered, “What if he didn’t. What if it he never left you, but it was you who didn’t follow?”

“What do you mean?” Dwalin growled and as he turned he drew himself up, bristling like a bear preparing to pounce. Finally Gloin took a small step back and yet he kept talking.

“Maybe Ori just wanted to visit Moria, but not end things with you. Maybe he hoped all along that you would come after him at some point?”

That statement made Dwalin clench his fists as his body longed to shut Gloin up, but his insides were starting to feel painful when he considered what was being implied. Maybe it was Dwalin himself all along who had been the greatest wrong-doer. Perhaps he had wasted winters and summers on tormenting himself and Ori instead of thinking over how Ori must have felt.

***

Anguish rose like wildfire within his chest and Dwalin spared Gloin no more moment. Instead he stalked from the armory and stepped onto the road that would lead him to the palace and Thorin’s private chambers.

During his way over there, he was suddenly assaulted by Dori who marched up to him and thrust a large sack into his arms. A heady scent of dry tea leaves emanated from the woven material and Dwalin blinked stupidly at Ori’s eldest brother.

Dori clicked his tongue, all businesslike and formal, but hardly forgiving Dwalin for ignoring Ori and his family in Erebor after Ori left.

“Bring this to my brother. It's a celebration day gift. My, my, 130 winters already! My dwarfling brother is growing up. Anyway, the Misty Mountains are draughty places and he’ll get constant colds unless he drinks my herbal tea blend. You tell him I said so and he knows my tea is good for him. The lad happily drank it throughout his dwarfling years. He’s used to it.”

Dori gave Dwalin a wry smile and stepped back. “I am so pleased that you two are trying to work out your disagreement.”

Dwalin was about to protest against the sudden, added burden to his packing, and the hopes Dori suddenly had placed on him, but then the courteous dwarf bowed politely and all but skipped down the street, elegantly flaunting his velvet robe that spoke of his riches from the tea establishment he had founded in Erebor.

Dwalin shook his head disbelievingly and hefted the tea sack better on his hip as he resumed his walk to Thorin’s palace. He had almost forgotten Ori's age and he contemplated whether he ought to bring a gift himself, but decided against it. It was better to only meet him and see if Ori's love still burned for him. If so, the red-haired dwarf would most likey consider Dwalin's presence a gift in itself.

Dwalin huffed and glanced at the last disappearing flash of Dori's robe. He admitted he had missed the odd but genuinely nice company of Ori’s brothers these years when he kept away from social life and everything that reminded him of Ori. Maybe it was time to change that.

The warrior dwarf also reflected that despite the odd silence from Moria, at least Dori had displayed no doubt that his younger brother was anything less than fine. No matter if that was a foolish notion or not, Dwalin envied him for his faith.

As opposed to Dori, Dwalin was struck by concern that not a word from the settlement had come to Erebor for years. It was not like Balin to ignore the trading and diplomacy parties that went through the Gap of Rohan between the mountain pass of the Misty Mountains. Could it be that the colony had found a more beneficial ally closer than Erebor?

These musings occupied Dwalin’s mind as he diverted from his route in order to dispose of the tea sack at his home where a bedroll and a packing lay on the dining table.

***

When Thorin pulled the door open himself and bid Dwalin to enter his rooms, Dwalin was momentarily pulled from his thoughts when he discovered how jittery and happy his old friend looked.

Thorin had only partly removed his royal garments this time, and still wore jewels in his beard and a green tunic with lacing made of golden thread at the collarbones and a large necklace with a round pendant that had a diamond embedded in the middle which rested against his chest. The King had at least removed his heavy fur coat which lay carelessly over the back of the settee.

Dwalin frowned as he took in the unusual details before addressing his friend. “Your Majesty, I have come to…”

As Dwalin lifted his eyes to Thorin, he saw how the other dwarf looked close to bursting with pride as he played with his jewel-adorned beard.

“May I ask what has you so cheerful, my King?” Dwalin wondered slowly. Thorin’s blue eyes shone and his white teeth showed when he grinned widely.

“Fortune shines on Erebor and my line this day. First of all, you, my warrior brother and cousin, shall venture outside the mountain to meet your brother and your lover again. Secondly, Fili has found a lass of his liking, Mahal bless them both. He will announce the engagement tomorrow.”

Dwalin did allow his features to brighten at the news, even if he felt a thud in his core at the mentioning of his One yet again. He quickly collected himself, though, and courteously replied, “Send the Heir my congratulations. And tell the woman I’m welcoming her to the line of Durin as if she was my own daughter.”

Thorin nodded his thanks at Dwalin’s gracious words and his smile never left his mouth. “I wish we could introduce you to each other, but I promised Fili one afternoon without obligations so he could spend it with the lovely Lady Nera. And with you leaving early tomorrow… Well, you’ll meet her when you return. The woman who will love and cherish my Heir, bear their dwarflings, be the queen of my kingdom one day."

Thorin halted his stream of words to wave at Dwalin to take a seat on the settee while he fell back against an armchair. Thorin's cheeks were flushed with life and Dwalin thought fondly that he was witnessing his friend being truly and completely happy. Thorin couldn't help himself when he resumed his tale of this new lady.

"She is perfect for Fili; dignified when needed, clever, levelheaded, kindhearted, and wild enough to occasionally coax Fili into relaxing and enjoying his youth so he’s not caught up in duties all the time. She makes him smile.”

“That’s more than a dwarf can ask from an intended spouse.” Dwalin commented.

Thorin shook his head and mumbled softly, “She’s no mere lass, Dwalin. She’s his One. He found her.”

“If you don’t mind indulging me before I tell you the purpose for my visit; what does she look like? Where does she come from?”

“She’s the oldest daughter of the Axehead clan from the east. She has her family’s birch and mithril hair and agile physique. She came with her father, the ambassador of the Iron Hills, to Erebor one moon ago to represent Dain in a friendly diplomatic exchange. I gave Fili and Kili the task of being hosts for her and show her our realm. Though, Kili quickly grew weary of two elder siblings’ long conversations and left Fili to guide Nera alone. Apparently Fili was quite taken by her from the beginning. Her weapon of choice is the scepter and her occupation skill involves designing mines so the tunnels on the drafts are steady when the miners start building new ways.”

Thorin brought up a ringclad hand to scratch at his bejeweled beard as he mused. “With her mithril hair and my Fili’s golden locks; I believe we are guaranteed to see Fili’s heritage kept. Just imagine, Dwalin, squealing, tumbling fair-haired dwarflings littering my palace.”

“One day at a time, Your Majesty,” Dwalin reminded carefully and made Thorin leave his daydreams and turn a slightly blushing face towards him, as if he had embarrassed the dwarf in his presence.

“Of… of course mithril and gold combined is a fine sight, but there’s nothing wrong with gneiss and copper.”

‘Ruby,’ Dwalin’s mind supplied immediately before it was Dwalin’s turn to become self-conscious. “That joining was ended many winters ago. What has passed has passed. Which evidently brings me to the next subject.”

Dwalin was fuming at Thorin’s callousness that left him with next to no choice considering the travel. Thorin visibly winced when his eyes took in Dwalin’s now stern form.

“I take it the idea wasn’t welcome. But I have need of you and grant you permission to stay for as long as you see fit in Moria once you’ve arrived. Send me a bird with a report so I know your findings in the mine.”

But Dwalin tensed and interjected, “You’re forcing me to see Ori." His cold accusation caused Thorin’s brows to lower and the King rose from his seat and strode forward and grabbed Dwalin by the tunic to haul him up and closer.

“My friend,” the King hissed with silken voice laced with wrath, “for once I think that some meddling is of need. I have sanctioned your travel. Do you care for any companions on the journey or not?”

Deeming it unwise to further press Thorin with his stubborness, and starting to feel resigned to his fate, Dwalin left the challenge and averted his eyes as he shook his head.

At that, Thorin released him and all businesslike again, the dwarf King cleared his throat. "It's settled then, as I believe Gloin has already informed you of the details. You leave alone tomorrow morning."

Dwalin thought it a small blessing that Thorin didn't insist on him bringing more dwarves. As an experienced warrior, Thorin must have understood his reasoning without him needing to explain himself. If only Dwalin went, he would be regarded as less than a threat to the beings he would and could run into compared to a large group of armed and well-stocked dwarves moving on the roads. Thorin probably wanted to prevent conflicts and suspicions. After all, rumors spread fast and were often changed into contorted versions of the truth. Twenty dwarves could easily be viewed as a hundred and Dwalin doubted anyone in Middle-Earth would be calm when hearing news of how an army of dwarves travelled the roads to an unknown destination.

Dwalin alone wouldn't be apprehended or hindered. But one thing did trouble him and he decided to voice it now while he had Thorin's attention.

"What do you gather has happened to Moria?"

Thorin lifted his head a little to eye his slightly taller companion. His face was more grave now.

"The complete silence is worrying. I wonder whether some weather conditions have stopped the caravans from Moria to the larger market points. Maybe a great avalanche or a flooding blocked the passage outside the mountain years ago. The dwarves there are after all to my knowledge not many. It may take time to rebuild with limited dwarf power,” Thorin stated.

As an afterthought, the King added, "Maybe there's something else. Some strategic reasons that would explain why Balin has chosen to keep a low profile and not contact Erebor in any way."

Dwalin nodded but he himself didn’t wish to guess the reason for the ended travel parties from Moria. He just wanted to hear Thorin's theory so he could answer him well once he arrived at the colony.

A notion in Dwalin's mind made him acknowledge his own driving force for going on the journey beside obeying his King and helping the trade. He actually wished to find Ori and have a word with him. What he would say, he wasn’t sure of, but he figured he could think of something along the way. After all, the road was long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so the members of the Company have at last kicked Dwalin into going already! Tell me your thoughts! Also, clearly I shouldn't make promises I can't keep where the undates are concerned. Sorry. I blame a full-time job and early mornings that left me exhausted. But as usual; most of the next chapter is already written so I will do my best to keep deliver.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A windling path.

**Chapter 6  
**

**Inspiring song: My Kind of Love – Emelie Sandé**

I know sometimes I get angry, and I say what I don't mean.  
I know I keep my heart protected, far away from my sleeve.  
But don't ever question if my heart beats only for you,  
It beats only for you.  
  
Cause when you've given up.  
When no matter what you do it's never good enough.  
When you never thought that it could ever get this tough,  
That’s when you feel my kind of love.

_Year 2995 (Six years since Ori's departure, one year after the fall of Moria, Ori 130, Dwalin 253)_

Dwalin was treading in snow down a winding path with his narrowed eyes locked on the lake far below. Hard snowflakes hit him in the eyes and he shoved the hood further down over his head.

The weathered warrior didn’t like this one bit. He was too exposed on the height of a mountain side; alone on an unlit road and caught in a snowstorm that robbed him of his sight and hearing. Only the howling wind sounded in his ears; unforgiving and cruel. He was tempted to pull one dry branch he had tucked away in his satchel and make a torch, but even if the flame managed to survive the harsh elements, it would be seen as a beacon to any vile creatures dwelling in the surrounding rocks.

So Dwalin pushed on, thankful at least that the gates to Moria weren’t that far away anymore, and that the road was leading downhill. He had chosen a southern, wide circle route that crossed Rohan’s northern border villages so to avoid travelling into elven territory; both Thranduil’s realm and Lothlórien.

He had been riding a pony from Erebor but sold it to a stable in a small village situated between the forests of Fangorn and Lothlórien before he made it to the Eastern side of the Misty Mountains and crossed it on rarely travelled paths. It had seemed cruel to force the animal into such horrible conditions as he was currently surrounded by. Also, the potential of the pony slipping on ice and falling off the narrow path on the mountain wall, along with valuable provisions made Dwalin even more certain that he had made a wise choice to push on alone.

Even as night descended on him with a thick, grey darkness, he wanted to reach Moria this day and not have to spend another miserable, restless night on the snowy mountain. It might have been a mistake on his part to make this journey without other dwarves, but at the same time, he desperately wanted to reach Ori as fast as possible, and he knew he moved so much faster on his own; driven by personal urge and wariness of the wild.

The wind suddenly changed its tune and he detected a piercing notch amongst the usual sounds. He immediately stopped and took one step to the left and moved his body to align with the medium sized cliff beside him. His back protested against the cold, sharp surface but Dwalin’s attention was elsewhere.

His eyes blinked and as he looked ahead at the narrow path and the great chasm beyond. He then turned his head to the right to look at the way he had come from, and then to the left where he had no knowledge of dangers or sheltering rocks. Dwalin grimaced and removed both his heavy axes from their sheaths.

He was badly prepared for a fight even as a trained fighter. He was surely outnumbered, exposed, and tired from sleepless nights with one eye constantly open. He would have to make a stand here; with an unknown path to the left, and an ascending path to the right. Anyone who fought on higher ground had better potential at attacking and defending.

Dwalin would have to stay where he was; with the cliff in his back, and not go either way. He also reminded himself to never in the impending fight turn around and risk getting pushed or stumble backwards and fall into the abyss. Evidently, he had decided for the most sensible strategy, for in the next moment, screeching noises announced the presence of arrows in the air and Dwalin heard some of them bounce off the very cliff he hid under.

He tried to calculate from where they had come, but it was all for nothing, for the wind morphed the sounds and made it impossible to know for sure. Dwalin just had to wait.

One small blessing though was that as a dwarf, he had better night-vision than Men; seeing as his kind was naturally adapted for living inside mountains and exploring dark tunnels and mines. It was a small mercy though, considering everything else that was working against him. Dwalin swung his axes slowly to stretch the muscles in his arms and shoulders. Then he detected a movement in front of him. Over the white edge of the path clung a black and warty hand; scrambling for purchase. Dwalin bared his teeth in disgust. Filthy goblins, considering the shape of the hand, or rather paw with grey fur covering it and long, dark claws curling into the ground.

Dwalin hated every dark creature that defiled the homes of dwarves and ambushed caravans. But a special hatred burned in his heart for goblins, for they were cowards; travelling in packs and only attacking during the night when every decent creature was badly prepared for it. At least their limbs where thin and easy to cut through with one stroke of his powerful weapons.

The warrior dwarf was tempted to lunge out from his shelter and slice that intruding hand and get rid of one opponent early, but he wouldn’t put himself in danger by such a reckless move.

Instead he had to endure hearing the sniveling monsters approaching from all around him, and oversee how the nasty goblin in front of him peeked his head up and crawled up from the mountain wall. Its yellow eyes widened as it spotted him and it hissed before slamming its jaws shut in hunger for Dwalin’s flesh.

Other goblins came in view in the distant as they sprinted down the hills above and ran along the path below, sliding in the snow and shrieking with excitement. Dwalin drew a deep breath and tightened his firm grip on Grasper. War cries in Khuzduhl ran through his mind, eager to be let out in an enraged roar but Dwalin kept quiet in order to unnerve the skittish creeps. It was time.

The one ahead stood gasping from the exertion of climbing and wouldn’t move for a while. Dwalin focused instead on the first _brave_ one who peeked around the cliff that enveloped him like a large cloak. Filthy cowards. Dwalin punished it for that slight by launching the smaller, hooked part of the axehead at the goblin’s neck and hauling him around the stone and straight towards him. He expertly gave Grasper a hard jerk and made the overwhelmed scum spin around until its back was sent against Dwalin’s chest. The dwarf wrapped an arm around the goblin’s cool torso and pressed Grasper’s shaft firmly into its belly to keep him trapped. While the dizzy creature snarled and scratched at Dwalin’s covered arm and gloved hand and cut itself on his lethal knuckle dusters, Dwalin lifted Keeper and swiftly and almost calmly slashed the bared throat.

The goblin made a gurgling noise, warm, black blood flooded over Dwalin’s leather gloves, and the body twitched for a moment before the legs gave out and Dwalin let it tumble to the ground. He snarled at the climbing goblin that stood immobile as the sole witness to his brutality and efficiency. The goblin bellowed in a sharp tone and looked frantically at the sides, most likely at its surrounding fellows.

“There’s more of that from where that came from,” Dwalin muttered grimly and turned Keeper leisurely so the dripping blood on the steel was clearly visible. The goblin waved an arm and cried out in to the dark sky. Dwalin’s blood pulsed fast in his veins as he watched the goblin who appeared to be debating with itself whether it was worth attacking him and surely make more goblins lose their lives just for a taste of dwarf flesh.

Dwalin broadened his stance and began swinging his trusted weapons at his boots.

“Come on, then!” he yelled, making sure every goblin around knew he was not an easy prey. The disgusting creature before him stared at him a moment more before it began to back away, though its yellow eyes kept darting between Dwalin’s steel face and the dripping weapons he wielded. The goblin gave a harsh squeak into the wind and in his peripheral sight, Dwalin could see the other goblins retreating like the self-serving cowards they were. Then the climbing goblin shrunk off up the hill and disappeared.

Dwalin waited some time under his shelter to be sure of their disappearance before kicking the fallen body at his feet out into the path. No cries or arrows pierced the air. He rocked Grasper and stretched his arm out so the axe peeked out from the safe stone surrounding him.

Nothing happened. Finally believing the dark creatures gone, Dwalin carefully stepped out into the open and hurried down the path despite his protesting twitching toes and legs that had gone stiff and cold from the long moment of standing still. Even if he had scared off the goblins, that didn’t mean the smell of his flesh would make them stay away for long and he wasn’t keen on filling any goblins’ belly. So he never sheathed his tainted twin axes and his eyes scanned the area far more often than earlier.

***

Not before long, Dwalin reached the end of the path and the shore of the lake on his right side while a large and straight constructed wall rose on his left. The wall was of dwarfish make, for nature couldn’t create such angular and smooth expanses out of rock and stone. He was outside Moria at last. To Dwalin’s relief, the wind didn’t ranged down there, nor did the snow fall in heaps anymore and he walked on pebbles instead of packed snow and ice.

As his eyes remained sharp, aware of the deceptive calm that could appear in the wild and make a foolish traveler relax and lower his guard. Dwalin however was far too experienced a warrior to be affected by the stillness. Not even a stir on the water rippled the surface and Dwalin frowned at the lake, unease in his body. It wasn’t natural for water to be so still. But he ignored the strangeness for now, for he had a mission to accomplish and his duty wasn’t over yet.

Instead he steered further from the edge of the lake and more towards the wall. Upon one step, his heel made the usual crunching sound when pressing into the pebbles, but the toe of his boot only made a muffled echo of the first sound. Dwalin halted immediately to investigate. He knew it wasn’t a trap, because goblins weren’t clever enough to think out refined ways of catch their prey. He knelt down and lifted his boot away.

There was something large and dark amongst the multi-coloured stones. Dwalin picked it up and turned the long and flat thing to make out what it was.

Leather, dwarfish, adorned with runes, tin buckle and well-used holes and some newly made towards one end of the strip.

This was a belt and it had been worn for long by its owner who was a rich, possibly noble dwarf according to the smooth and fine leather and the runes running along it. The dwarf had been fairly robust but gone fatter recently and had needed to make new holes for the belt to fit around his growing middle. Older dwarves usually grew bigger. So; an old, noble or rich dwarf had lost his belt on the shore outside Moria. Dwalin furrowed his brows.

“Why, dwarf of Erebor, why did you lose your precious belt? And why were you alone outside the mines?” Dwalin murmured as his thumb slid over the material.

He had come to the conclusion that the dwarf had been alone, because there lay no other items scattered on the pebbles around him. In the middle of his musings, right when Dwalin heaved himself up, his thumb traced the back of the buckle and he felt an indent. He held up the belt and scrutinized the inside of the tin which was hidden from view by the leather when worn. As a struck of luck, the clouds and mists above him parted at that moment and moonlight shone down upon Dwalin and the buckle. His jaw slackened.

The familiar four squares that made Oin’s mark adorned the tin.

Why had a diligent and systematic old healer carelessly lost his important belt on the ground? Dwalin’s senses told him something was definitely wrong. Why did the kingdom not have guards stationed outside the mountain? But then the warrior reasoned with himself while thinking back on the pack of goblins who had assaulted him.

The goblins clearly swarmed the area. If the goblins had bred too much and become too many for the settlement to handle it needed to share that state of affairs with the world and call for aid. No wonder no sentries were posted if goblin raids had become common and the number of dwarves in Moria was limited. It wouldn’t do for a colony to become all but besieged by dark creatures outside its doorstep. That must be the reason for the ended envoys and merchants leaving Moria to visit the trading routes.

All the more eager now to see Ori and Balin and receive proper answers, and troubled by Oin’s belt, Dwalin was spurred to locate the entrance into the mines.

***

The moonlight helped him notice the blue gleaming door that was decorated with moon runes but closed and sealed completely shut, as was natural for a dwarfish door leading into a kingdom. Dwalin squinted his eyes and made out the words written on the stone and his features darkened when he was so close to his goal. Trust blasted Balin to secure the hidden door with a riddle that was almost unsolvable even to a dwarf.

Dwalin did what other dwarves did when finding a closed door. He looked for an alternative route by using words as keys. He only had to find the right one to unlock the door. The problem was that Balin was a very clever dwarf and would certainly want to ward off any beings that weren’t dwarves and who didn’t belong in his colony.

Dwalin read the riddle more times, searched for a connection between the runes, called silently and knocked on the door with first his fist, then his axe, and finally tapped it with the ironclad tip of his boot. Unfortunately, the door remained closed.

And just as Dwalin began worrying about how much time he had until more goblins crawled up from their holes and began searching for him once more, he realized the question written on the stone. Or rather, the required answer.

“Friend.”

The stone didn’t budge.

“ _Bâh_.”

The Khuzdul word for friend didn’t work either. Scowling out of frustration, Dwalin searched his mind for those awful lessons Balin had given him when he was a wee lad. A few phrases in some kind of Elvish in case he ever ran into a pointy-eared longshank. Pacifying words…

“Me… _mellon_ ,” Dwalin said slowly and tried to not make the oddly light word too affected by his usual way of speech. It rolled uncomfortably from his tongue but suddenly the door cracked and swung open and Dwalin quickly entered; glad to leave the wilderness behind.

As expected, the door closed the moment he was in; an ingenious construction no doubt, and left Dwalin surrounded by darkness. His dwarven eyes adapted somewhat to the darkness but all he saw was shapes in blurred shades of black and grey.

Deftly, the dwarf sheathed one axe but kept the other near and made a torch by binding a cloth soaked in oil to one long and thin branch from his firewood supply and proceeded to wrap the top of the branch with it. From a leather pouch he gathered some glowing coal he had preserved from his latest fire and pressed one burned, but also red amongst the black, splinter against the wet cloth.

A flame came to life and surrounded the torch in a flash and Dwalin allowed himself to smirk at his achievement. He had light, some amount of heat to warm his face and hands for now, and he was inside Moria. Then he looked around.

Dread filled him when he gazed into the dark tunnel ahead of him. As the torch sent a flickering light around him, he noticed the rubbish and stone rubbles littered on the floor, and the otherwise completely abandoned room. Not even a sign of life was there, as if Moria was abandoned.

Dwalin tried to reason with himself even as his heart pounded with worry and unease. The mines of Moria were large. Surely the colonists hadn’t had the time to restore every corner of the mountain even after six years. They were probably staying together in one certain part of the mountain, especially during the cold winters when they needed to preserve energy and heat and gathered by a few hearths.

Dwalin squinted into the shadows of the tunnel ahead and recalled the content in Ori’s letters even as a draughty wind swept by and made a shiver run down his back. Ori had mentioned a Second Hall and attached a sketched map. If that hall was inhabited by one dwarf it likely contained more chambers and dormitories for the settlers. If his memory served him right, Dwalin thought that the halls of Moria would be located in the north-east direction from where he stood. So that was where he was going to steer his feet.

But the further Dwalin marched into the mountain, the more the nervousness at Ori’s imminent reaction at the surprising presence of his old lover, and what Dwalin had planned to say vanished and an anxiety appeared in its place. Dwalin wondered in his mind why Moria looked so damaged and untended even when he had walked far in the labyrinth of tunnels, bridges, and rooms.

The smell seemed dusty and filed with decay in his nose and wherever he looked he saw neglected building structures, deserted halls and dark tunnels. At one point he turned around a corner and stood face to face with the remains of a body leaning against a wall. Now, Dwalin was an experienced warrior, but he had more often seen freshly killed dwarves that had just left the life on Middle-Earth, than preserved, dry corpses still standing.

He lowered his axe and swept the arm holding the torch over the figure. A black and crudely crafted arrow pierced the chainmail of the fallen soldier and Dwalin repressed a shudder and averted his eyes from the forever silent, screaming mouth amidst yellow-brown skin that stretched over the face.

“What in Durin’s name has happened here?” he asked himself and backed away from the dwarf that clearly had fallen because of goblins considering the design, or lack thereof on the arrow.

What disturbed him more as he resumed walking although even more cautiously, not wanting to create a carrying echo, was that the body had been left where it died and not taken care of according to dwarf traditions. Dead dwarves belonged in stone, or, in case of an emergency, burned on a pyre. It went against common decency to leave bodies like this. Corpses attracted illness and hungry creatures. There was a great risk of an unattended body being plundered and desecrated.

Dwalin shook his head to compose himself and ascended the stairway ahead with a heavy heart. He began to fear for the dwarves of Moria he still hadn’t found, and so he hurried his steps despite his tiredness. Tragically he came across more skeletons, just as uncared for. The thought of battles and skirmishes so deep inside the kingdom made him very uncomfortable and as he lowered his brows, a grim look was placed on his face.

He entered the mighty hall of Dwarrowdelf but he barely noticed the beauty of the structures and the ancient pillars that supported the enormous, distant vaults above.

His attention remained on the dry bodies in simple armour that had been left where they fell on the dirty floor. There were many dwarves, and some goblin scum as well. The dwarves of Moria had suffered a large and dangerous attack. But where did the survivors stay? Dwalin dared not shout in the hall and reveal his presence so carelessly. This was a different mine from the one in Erebor, one which he didn’t know and which could hide more goblin holes in its depths.

Dwalin’s sad eyes swept over the dwarves and he detected with horror that some skeletons had their bones riddled with teeth marks. As if…

Dwalin choked and emptied his stomach on the floor when he realized that goblins had gnawed on the bones, probably eaten the flesh straight from the cooling bodies. There was a limit to how much he could stand regarding honoured brothers being defiled by scum and his stomach clenched restlessly. He wiped his mouth with his glove, disliking the way his hand trembled.

With heavy feet and trembling legs he came to the end of the great hall and detected a peculiar beam of moonlight shine from the ceiling which elegantly ended in a hole above a room. Dwalin let himself be guided by the blue light as he ascended a short stair two steps at a time and gaped at the half-broken door that clearly had seen much violence.

Thankfully its hinges still worked and didn’t make a creaking noise when Dwalin gave it a nudge so the two parts swung open. Cold fear filled his being when he witnessed the scene before him.

***

The room was small but shattered to pieces. The chamber didn’t smell of blood, but Dwalin could see the rusty, dry marks and pools everywhere on the floor.

He lifted his gaze and saw the remains of many dwarves, lying in heaps on ledges and floor, some with armour or weapons on them, some just covered in dwarf clothes and bandages, limbs askew. They had all turned to skeletons or dry corpses.

Dwalin shuddered and took a hesitating step inside as his tearing eyes processed the massacre. His suspicions had proven correct; there had been a battle inside Moria and dark creatures had been the foe.

But where had Ori gone in this chaos? Dwalin had no clue and his attention was drawn to the stone construction in the center of the room. He abhorred how much the square-shaped creation resembled a dwarf tomb. He approached it slowly, dreading what he would soon read on top of the large stone, for he noticed runes carved into it.

He bowed his head in respect for the fallen one before he allowed his eyes to read the letters.

Drowning.

A feeling of drowning burst through Dwalin’s wrecked body and he was sinking, darkness closed in on him as he struggled to get air where there was none.

Gasping, blinking, denying the ugly truth that couldn’t be real, and yet was set in stone, Dwalin braced himself on the edge of the grave and hunched his shoulders like a lonely tree on a windy, barren hill that was struck by a storm.

Dwalin’s family was gone. Balin had died.

 _Balin, son of Fundin, Lord of_ Moria.

Sobbing and feeling hot tears run down his weary face, Dwalin couldn’t help but emitting a devastating wail that was too quiet to contain all his grief but a necessity if he wanted to pass through Moria unnoticed. He patted and caressed the plane surface, forever separated from his dear older brother for Balin’s spirit walked in the halls of the ancestors now. Dwalin sniveled and bent to press his forehead against the cool rock as a last goodbye to a short, fat, wise, and content dwarf. He gritted his teeth and tried not to let fierce longing set in and make him only want to one more time meet Balin’s forehead lovingly with his own.

As he straightened and made to step back, at loss of what he would do next in this great mine of death and horror, his eyes drifted to the side and noticed a figure leaning against the grave with a familiar knitted scarf and a loose jumper.

***

Slackening hands lost the grip of the axe and it cluttered to the floor.

Dwalin recoiled on unsteady legs and frantically scanned the body as nausea unlike any other he had ever experienced rose within. He was looking for a mistake, a misunderstanding, but there was none except for cruel reality.

The skeleton of a small dwarf was clutching a tome, a feather pencil was on the floor by the still hand. The dwarf wore a knitted jumper that was loosely fitted and bunched at his middle. Just like Ori.

“Ori?” Dwalin choked and he fell to his knees in the silent room of the dead.

“Ori.” he implored, his low voice breaking. And then he began to grasp what dreadful sight was before him. His dead lover. Ori slayed and defiled. A young dwarf with a gentle soul defeated despite only holding a book in his arms.

Ori had been alone, thinking Dwalin hated him. That was when Dwalin began to regret, and turn the blame on himself. He averted his gaze from the horrid proof of what consequences his anger and foolish pride had brought. He crumbled on the dusty floor, shoulders shaking and face buried in his lap. He mumbled, whispered, cried incoherent pleas and tears streamed down his face as his heart broke.

“Ori, you can’t be gone. Because I came to apologize. My love never waned for you, my ruby, my only ink-dwarf.”

Dwalin sobbed and thrust his gloved fist against the stone floor once, and crackling pain spread through his hand, but nothing compared to the amount of agony in his heart.

“Ori! I… I don’t know what to do,” Dwalin cried and trembled from fear of facing the world alone. “I, I can’t go back to reliving every battle in my life without you here to bring me out of my misery. I’m a damaged warrior and you’re… you’re the best scribe in Erebor’s history. Your smile makes my darkened thoughts vanish. Don’t leave me. Please! Mahal, hear my prayer, spare my One from this fate. Take my life for his. Just don’t let him be… be…”

Dwalin stuttered in his rambling words and couldn’t bring himself to say it, courage for once in his life failing him. Maybe he should pray for Balin as well, but it was somewhat easier to accept his much older brother’s fate. Balin had been an old, happy dwarf. Balin had been put to rest in a stone tomb. But Ori had been treated unfairly by the gods and by enemies. And by him.

Ori had even lost Balin since he was resting against Dwalin’s brother’s tomb and Dwalin could barely fathom how scared and lonely the scribe would have felt those moments before he was slayed. He couldn’t bear to touch the remains. No teeth marks riddled the bones, but Ori was dead all the same. Despair filled the warrior’s soul.

Dwalin gingerly traced the inscription on the tomb with a shaking finger as he watched Ori's corpse. Then he wept for Balin and for Ori; one lost brother, one lost lover.

With badly shaking hands he picked up his now very heavy axe and sheathed it. What was the point of keeping vigilance now if Moria was lost and Dwalin had no-one of his kin to protect? He might as well die himself had he not pledged allegiance to Thorin and promised his king to fulfill his mission to bring back a report on what had happened to the colony.

Suddenly something rustled close to him and Dwalin flinched. Reflexes alone made him reach for his axes, but it was the tome which had slipped from Ori’s limp grasp and come to rest on the floor beside him. Somehow that solidified the awful reality to Dwalin. His Ori would never let a tome fall on a dusty floor as long as he drew breath. Which he didn’t anymore. Because he was dead.

With tears falling down and ending in his beard, Dwalin bent and gently picked up the broken book. With trembling hands he thumbed to the last pages where Ori’s neat runes had become messy and uneven in apparent distress. Dwalin almost didn't recognized them. Dwalin read it while holding his breath, quiet tears rolling over his cheeks.

" _Balin, lord of Moria, fell in Dimrill Dale. He went alone to look in Mirrormere. An orc shot him from behind a stone. We slew the orc, but many more ca [...] up from east up the Silverlode [...] we rescued Balin’s body [...]re a sharp battle [...] we have barred the gates but doubt if [...] can hold them long. If there is [...] no escape it will be a horrible fate to suffer, but I shall hold."_

 A shiver ran down Dwalin's spine at the horror the trapped dwarves had felt, the fear and anguish Ori had experienced those last moments before the door was breached and their doom invaded the last room where a group of survivors had to make a stand. He let out strangled sobs at some parts when he read the final notes.

_"We cannot get out. We cannot get out. They have taken the bridge and Second Hall. We still ho[...]g ... but hope u[...]n[...]Óin’s party went five days ago but today only four returned. The Watcher in the Water took Óin--we cannot get out. The end comes soon. We hear drums, drums in the deep. They are coming"_

***

Dwalin was running. His boots pounded against the floor but the leather softened the echoes he would have created. The Chamber of Records was behind him and even if he stumbled of occasionally staggered; he kept putting as much distance as possible between himself and the cursed room.

There was nothing he could do about the corpses lying scattered over Moria: he was in enemy land and once dwarf alone couldn’t put every fallen dwarf in stone graves. He only lived for returning to Erebor and telling Thorin what had happened. That was Dwalin’s only purpose for living at this moment for he was a dwarf possessed by tragedy.

As he made a sharp turn and sprinted up some stairs, he lifted his hand and slammed it into his own temple; rather inflicting pain on his body to make the thoughts swirling in his mind disappear. But they came to him anyway.

Balin’s last words to him echoed in his head, just as his own parting words to his brother. " _Dwalin, I love you, but you are one of the most stubborn dwarves I've met, and that's not a compliment_."

Dwalin panted and his features were contorted into a mask of agony. “ _Good luck, Balin_.”

How bitter was not the chalk Dwalin had to down now, especially when the last communication between him and his beloved Ori reminded him that Ori’s last words to him had been written on a piece of parchment instead of spoken by a leveled and gentle voice, simply repeating what his last three letters had said in essence: _Please_.

Whereas Dwalin’s words had been cold and disregarding: “ _Your party is leaving_.”

Dwalin asked himself why the party had only been Ori’s when they were One to each other. Dwalin should have been there by Ori’s side and left Erebor for another adventure. He should have enjoyed more of Ori’s presence in the colony of Moria, watched the scribe’s exaltation, heard his stories of the improvements for each day. He should have been there to care for, warm, love, cherish, and protect Ori.

Why hadn’t he? Because he was a stubborn old goat who held onto an idiotic principle of not admitting his own wrongdoing in their arguing and practically driving his own spouse away. Away to his death.

Dwalin’s run had led him up, towards one small, surely forgotten entrance to the mountain and he staggered outside, meeting a dark night where clouds now covered the moon. His chest was heaving like enormous forge bellows and the sweat on his body quickly cooling in the cold air. He paced outside Moria, his boots making tracks in the snow-covered rocks and cliffs. Dwalin ran his hands over his tattooed head and let out a distressed moan. He was going mad with grief.

Something seized around his heart and crumbled it until he couldn’t breathe lest he let it all out. And so he did, never minding foul beasts overhearing him. Dwalin turned sharply towards the opening into the mountin and screamed as his knees threatened to buckle, “Ori, you can’t be dead! We were supposed to grow old together.”

He wailed and paced, eyes always darting back towards the opening as if expecting Ori to appear and go towards him. Dwalin crouched down and whimpered, “Mahal, forgive me for my foolishness. I’ll do anything, but please, I beg of you to bring my One back. Bring him back to Middle-Earth if not to my arms. Take me instead of him. Just make him alive again.”

No gods heeded his pleading prayer.

The wailing turned to rage after a while and it hurt his knuckle when Dwalin drove a knife to the hilt into a rock and roared to the dark sky, uncaring who heard him. Goblins in filthy lairs most likely startled at the untamed, ferocious scream. It didn’t matter; neither goblins nor patrolling elves from the Elven kingdom nearby could harm him now, for his One had been ripped from his heart and soul and life forever.

Dwalin’s features were wild with emotions.

He had no memories of how he made it back to Erebor, but the guards at the gates confided in him later that he had resembled a specter, bringing ill news to the mountain. Once he was home, the mighty Dwalin started to age.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've reached the bottom. But it will still be bad before it gets better. I'm sorry for putting you all through this. But there will be more Ori in the next chapter.
> 
> Chapter info: Dwalin’s path down to the entrance to Moria is the same as the one in the video game The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers, level Gates of Moria. 
> 
> Also, obviously it wasn't Ori who had written the last bits in the tome, because it was Náli. This fits into my head canon (Ori didn't die in Moria!) as well as the canon from Tolkien himself: 'The last page of the Book of Mazarbul was read aloud by Gandalf. It is written in Angerthas Erebor, similar to that of the first page, but with a different hand and different details in the runes.' Very interesting! 
> 
> I also made Dwalin have the same reaction as Ori when he found out about Balin's death. 
> 
> Basically, you might want to reread chapter 4 to discover more details such as why Ori's jumper was being worn by Náli. 
> 
> Please comment if you like.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All hope is gone.

**Chapter 7**

**Inspiring song: Streets of Philadelphia - Bruce Springsteen**

I was bruised and battered and I couldn’t tell what I felt  
I was unrecognizable to myself  
I saw my reflection in a window, I didn't know my own face

_Year 2995 (Six years since Ori's departure, one year after the fall of Moria, Ori 130, Dwalin 253)_

Once Dwalin had returned to Erebor, King Thorin was appalled at the final report about Khazad-Dum’s fall, and at his friend’s devastation, and the loss of two great dwarves who had been dear to him. After retelling the fate of the lost colony, Dwalin was bid to sit at a small table inside Thorin's private quarters.

A servant entered only to serve Dwalin a hot meal before leaving with a bowed head. The news had began to spread within the mountain and soon the night would be disturbed by cries and wounded howls from families to the fallen dwarves.

DwaIin plucked disinterested at the food and put some in his mouth. It tasted like ash. Everything was ash.

His nape ached. No Ori would come and tut and fuss over his sore body, and after berating him for straining himself, settle behind him and massage the tender muscles.

Thorin stood by the opposite chair and braced himself heavily. He uttered quietly, “Dwalin; your grief is my grief. I am so sorry.”

Thorin watched with mounting despair how affected his old friend was. Dwalin seemed to have aged well beyond his years during the journey, and he looked wasted away even as his form remained large. But his shoulders were slumped, his back appeared constantly bent from a burden, and his spirit was broken. Dwalin, son of Fundin was resigning himself to age.

The King's blue eyes travelled over the fastly greying hair, the matted beard which hung limply and tangled, the straining lines on his ashen face. Dwalin was exhausted, and it was never a good sign when a dwarf's beard lost its shine.

“Never again shall I venture outside the Mountain, Your Majesty. There’s nothing for me out there,” Dwalin almost whispered with a brittle voice so unlike the steadfast warrior.

Thorin bit his lip uncertainly before stating with a gentle tone, “I have arranged a ceremony for Balin and Ori, and the other defenders of Khazad-Dum. Since we cannot risk retrieving their bodies and bury them under rocks… Will you honour me with your presence?”

“Is that an order, my King?” Dwalin asked tiredly. Thorin paled at the implication before he explained gently, “It is a simple question and either answer is acceptable.”

“Then I humbly choose to stay in my quarters.”

Still, Thorin wished to relieve some amount of the torment his friend was plagued with.

"I see. But maybe it would do you and the memory of Ori and Balin good if you pray to Mahal for comfort. You know they have gone to be with their ancestors in Aulë’s halls…” Thorin quietly told him but was interrupted when Dwalin suddenly dropped his damned fork on the plate and flew up from the chair.

“But they should be here with me!” Dwalin roared and pushed the table over in a fit of passionate rage. A cacophony rose in the chamber when cutlery and crockery crashed together. He then snatched up a large marble vase on the floor and hurled it into the wall and it was crushed into thousand pieces.

Soaked in sudden sweat beneath the woolen tunic, Dwalin was panting like an animal. In another time, he would have been mortified at his insolent behaviour towards the King and his possessions, but right now he cared about absolutely nothing. Though the King only stepped out from behind the chair and tilted his head a little.

“Are you composed again?” Thorin asked him calmly though his features were marred with pain, and Dwalin clenched his idle hands to stop them from shaking. He gave a short nod. He was composed. At the moment and only through sheer willpower. Beneath his hard exterior, his blood was coarsing with wild and confused sorrow that had to get out at some point.

Thorin sighed and his head dropped so his chin rested on his chest, exposing his greying hair on the crown, before he nudged his boot-clad foor against a leg on the overturned table.

“Then do you forgive me my leave, my friend? I have to visit every home now harbouring widows, widowers, and fatherless dwarflings and pay my respects to the families of those brave who fell in Moria.”

Somewhere in the great dark void inside him, Dwalin processed Thorin’s words and acknowledge the King’s torment at having to carry out such a horrible duty. What came out when he spoke under his breath however, was a bitter remark laced with dismay.

“You won’t be done by dawn. There are too many homes. I saw so many fallen…”

Thorin pulled himself up tall and moved his hunched shoulders back, retaining his regal posture. He didn’t seem surprised at Dwalin’s lack of encouragement or approval but neither was he pleased with his hopeless tone.

“Then I shall wander through my mountain the entire night and morning and noon if that’s what it takes. My subjects shall know that their King valued their dwarf men and that there will be a compensation to ensure their welfare for years. And tomorrow there will be a memorial service arranged for the whole of Erebor, which you still are welcome to attend, should you change your mind.”

Then Thorin added quietly, “You are entitled to a sum as well for your loss of two kins.”

But Dwalin shook his head.

“I have no need of coins now. Give them to fatherless dwarflings for all I care.”

***

On his way back to his house, late that night when Thorin had left the palace in his most proper attire, Dwalin was approached in the abandoned street by a loud and flailing creature. Soon he had a mourning Dori repeatedly pounding his fists into Dwalin’s chest with remarkable strength.

Completely struck by grief, the silver-haired dwarf sobbed out between the punches, “Why did you let him leave Erebor?!”

Dwalin stood quiet and frozen and took the beating, for he could offer no explanation nor defend himself from the sad accusation because he was asking himself the same question each time he inhaled air.

It was Nori who intervened and gently guided the outraged Dori into his own arms, and told them both firmly but heavy-hearted nonetheless that it had been Ori’s choice to go, even if Dwalin didn’t support his decision. Dwalin wasn’t sure whether Dori listened or blocked Nori out. But Dwalin had no strength or consolation to offer his brothers-in-law, for he had none for himself.

Dwalin burried under the furs in bed that night but no warmth came from the pelts, nor the fireplace which had been neglacted for several moons during Dwalin's travel. Dwalin was too tired to even begin to arrange logs and start a fire, so he endured the cold bed against his sore body.

In the middle of the bedchamber in the darkness, Dwalin remembered all the things in the house that were now hidden in shadows but would be awfully clear come morning. Yarn, needles, books, scrolls, tunics in a smaller size than his... The place was littered with Ori's belongings that would make it seem as if the scribe was still alive and nearby. How mocking and cruel.

Dwalin groaned when his belly churned and even affected his unfeeling heart into an ache that wouldn't be removed, only dulled by distractions. As he had entered their home, he hadn't really fanthomed the full prospect; that Ori would never be there again.

Dwalin was slowly breaking apart and the gap between the dwarf he had been and the wretched creature he was becoming grew broader and broader. He had bound his soul to Ori’s heart. Ori was gone now. Dwalin tried to faintly comfort himself with the fact that at least Ori hadn’t suffered badly when he met his end.

The consolation was bleak, for Dwalin remembered how the red-haired dwarf had fallen in a room with no escape, trapped and hunted, in the Chamber of Records; a place which Ori always loved and felt content to be in. The goblins had tainted that feeling of security when they stormed the last stronghold in Moria and slaughtered every remaining dwarf.

Ori had been holding a book to his heart. Was it to feel his work and life against him in his dying moment? Or perhaps a way to escape with the mind: imagining the content on the pages instead of the approaching horror? Or was it an act of desperation; to protect the precious, historical tome as long as he still drew breath?

Dwalin didn’t know, and would never know for sure. Sleep didn’t come to salvage him from his anguish that night.

***

A languid year had passed since Ori stumbled over the border to the elven kingdom, injured and frightened. During that time, his body had healed mostly; a few scars marring his skin here and there only. But his head hadn’t healed.

Ori couldn’t remember at all. Not his previous life, his family and friends; presumably he had those, experiences, the culture and history of dwarves. He only knew his name thanks to his confused mumbles at the healer's house when he had arrived to the elves, and that he belonged to the species of dwarf folk. Everything else remained faded into the mist inside his mind. It felt like a pond at times, when Ori concentrated and tried to delve beyond the still and unrippled surface but nothing emerged from the depth.

Still, that didn't make him too miserable. He had things to be grateful for and kind hosts who taught him of their world. He was allowed to wander around the green city of Lorien where elves resided in the trees and had constructed a palace with calming light everywhere. He could do whatever he liked, as long as he stayed within their border, but he felt to unsure of himself to set his foot outside this safe world.

And then there was the lectures from kind elves who taught him their own language and revealed amusing or intriguing aspects of an elf's long life. Like how much they valued trees and innocent creatures in the woods, how their green and nutritious meals were always filling the belly no matter the hunger. Or how they longed to be able to make a final journey through Middle-Earth to the Grey Havens and sail into the west.

So Ori was happy as he stayed in the palace and was tended to. Currently he was seated on a bench made out of a living root belonging to a grey, large tree and felt the warmth from the sunlight that filtered through the leaf-ceiling. Birdsong served to further the tranquility in the clearing. Ori had a book in his lap with one page completely white, whereas the other was covered with lines and doodles; the beginning stage of his complicated drawings.

Ori found himself enjoying to draw pictures and having some object to sketch with in his soft hand. As he slowly dangled his legs from the bench, he felt against his shins the smooth fabric of his faintly lilac tunic that only was adorned with a silver belt made of delicate chains. Some musings distracted him drom his drawing. He knew he was a dwarf, but could never remember if he ever had seen other dwarves. He didn’t even know his own age, whereas the elves knew exactly for how long they had been in Middle-Earth and what had happened during those many years.

But some elven diplomats who had seen the world estimated his age to be around 120, and explained to Ori that he was a fairly young adult according to dwarf aging. Ori grinned to himself. Well, he might be damaged but at least he wasn’t old, and there had been some talk of a remedy to his _state_ , as the elven healers called his condition, or his _derangeness_ , as Ori himself thought.

***

“It is good to see you smiling, my young friend.”

Ori started and whipped his head up to see on the other side of the clearing a kind and handsome elf dressed in a moonlight-colored robe with embroidery of flowers. Ori heaved his items onto the bench and scrambled up before the elf even had lifted a hand to gesture at him to remain seated.

“Good day, Your Majesty,” Ori said humbly and bowed before King Celeborn of Lothlorien.

But Celeborn only quirked his brows and made a slight bow himself. “You honour me with your manners, but know that after one year, you may call me my friend, as I do you. Friends do not have to feel the obligation to bow to one another upon meeting, even if one of them happens to have a crown.”

Ori rubbed his hands together anxiously and nodded. “I understand, Your Higness. But tell me, what are you doing here? I believe we had decided to meet not earlier than tomorrow evening.”

Ori wasn’t one to challenge a king, but he had found out that he had a curious streak and he knew Celeborn wouldn’t mind the question. It was more of a concern what answer Ori would get. It could be a revealed truth, or a subtle indication before a changing of subjects. You never knew with a ruler.

However, Celeborn stode forward until he reached the bench and lowered himself onto it with grace so no wrinkles appeared on his robe. Ori smiled at the friendly act that meant he was almost at eye-level with the tall figure.

Still, Ori chose to shuffle together his drawing kit and move it and himself to a rounded protruding root a bit away so he and Celeborn could talk while watching each other. He was used to having these private conversations with the elf who had a remarkable ability to heal all kinds of injuries and wounds that weren't necessarily visible to the eye.

Celeborn explained his presence.

“I have come because the matters on the Galadhrim were resolved quickier than expected. My officers are very eager to implement the new patrolling routines so there was not much to discuss.”

Ori hummed and might have planned to visit the Royal Army of Lothlorien the next day if something interesting was happening there. Celeborn sat serenely on the bench and began to study Ori, as he did often during their more formal encounters. Ori turned serious and allowed his mind to rest from quick thoughts, only listening in on the present.

“You are drawing something new today,” Celeborn commented and glanced at the book beside Ori.

“I am. Only scattered pieces so far, and by your leave, I would like to draw now.”

The elf’s expression turned into an amused one. “Go ahead, Ori. But I would be grateful if some portion of your attention is directed towards me.”

“Certainly,” Ori stated and happily put the book against his knees and resumed making lines.

"You are very talented, my friend, in capturing the real world on parchment. I hope you are aware of how the whole palace is admiring your artistic prowess.”

Ori blushed and grumbled something incoherently while ducking his head behind the book. “It’s merely a gift I have and nothing special. Besides, how can I not create pictures of all the beauty in this forest? I feel a desire in my heart to make the nature more lasting against seasons by putting it in my book through ink or coal.”

Celeborn tapped his slender fingers on the edge of the bench and contemplated his answer. “I am flattered that you deem my kingdom worthy of sustaining through drawings.”

Ori peered at him from the top of the book. “Really, Your Majesty, it’s no trouble at all for me, and if you and the rest of the palace like my work, then it’s a perfect gift in return for your generosity towards me. Many elves have spent time with me this past year to teach me the ways of elves, some Sindarin, and how your kind keeps a close relationship with the trees you live in. It’s fascinating to me, and it’s soothing to the mind.”

It was true; Ori hungrily took every bit of knowledge he could get, but the reason wasn’t solely explained by his natural curiosity.

Celeborn seemed to sense his sudden hesitation and tilted his head to the side. “You are troubled by something. Do I sense a yet here?”

Ori lowered the book and his shoulders in defeat. He might as well admit.

“I find it better to be occupied with a flood of studies than ponder on my otherwise empty head. It’s easier to endure and, heh, _forget_ my condition if I’m reading a book or listening to a teacher.”

A bitter tone in his voice proved Ori’s frustration with his memory. He began to work harder on getting all the shades on the picture right with his coal stick. Then the gentle dwarf added quietly, “Some would call me stupid.”

Celeborn flinched and spoke sternly, “Why would you say that, Ori? Have you heard anyone insulting you?”

Ori began to stutter; ashamed for having awoken Celeborn’s worry. “No, not any of your subjects. It’s just that… I’m not surprised if others beyond this kingdom would think so if they knew about my condition. Maybe I was born like this. A village idiot that can’t be cured.”

The unoccupied fingers on his left hand drifted to his tunic and started to fidget with the barely tangible seam. The fabric slipped softly under his fingertips but did little to soothe Ori’s nerves.

Celeborn stood up and moved to him before actually kneeling before him on the moss and sending a scented wave of chestnut and flowers over Ori.

The king’s sudden proximity made Ori look up to meet his wise gaze. Celeborn spoke surely when he said, “Ori, you are not a fool. Have you not been able to read our scrolls and learn our language just fine within a few moons? Believe me; most dwarves can hardly master the Common language. But even if you do not know what caused this state of you mind, I have finally procured an idea.”

This revelation made Ori gasp and his heart beats sped up. “Oh?”

Celeborn sent him a sad and yet honest look. “You have been through something utterly terrible. I have no knowledge of any details since you came to us in a mystery, but sometimes a creature can be maimed in the head from terror and evil. We call it _trauma._ ”

Celeborn looked down at his white hands and sighed. “Many of my kin have suffered this fate in Middle-Earth when they were abducted and held as prisoners by orcs. Even the beloved daughter of me and Galadriel was lost to us after she had married a lord and carried forth three children and finally been attacked by orcs.”

Celeborn  suddenly appeard aged, pale, and haggared and Ori knew for certain that the king never had mention to him about this daughter. The dwarf shuddered at the very thought of the dark creatures that elves could never forgive or spare. He had read in some tomes in the library how orcs were the twisted form of life that only ruined, defiled, or spread foulness in the world. The elves abhorred thinking of them, so the information wasn’t very elaborated, though.

Ori wanted to comfort his friend somehow and tentatively moved his left hand to press on the back of Celeborn’s cool hand.

“I am deeply sorrowful for your loss, Your Maje… my friend.”

Celeborn sighed and it was as if the very leaves surrounding them in the clearing trembled on their branches from the elf’s grief.

“What cannot be changed, we must accept. Thank you for your kindness,” Celeborn whispered before the shadow passed from his face and the sun shone a little brighter again.

Ori removed his hand and put down the book once more. After the awful news of Celeborn’s child, he could hardly get back to drawing something so trivial as a bird while a mourning regent sat on moss in front of him.

The king however seemed to regain his spirit and gave him a short smile and added, “But things that we can do something about are not things we must let be broken. Know that you have a chance to heal your mind here under my care. I personally trust your memory shall return to you when your mind is ready. But we shall continue our conversations, if you do not mind. I suspect they will be worthwhile in the end, if I learn more about your thoughts, feelings, and the workings of your mind.”

“I don’t mind at all. I feel calm when I share my thoughts and worries with a wise elf such as yourself,” Ori agreed.

Celeborn stood up again and towered over him, but not giving away any feeling of looming.

“You have a home here and can stay as long as you want even if you regain your memory. You are our wonderful Drawer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dwalin’s time as a widower; not a very happy one :'( On another note; Celeborn does deserve a bigger part in my opinion, and he will play the therapist. And his and Galadriel's daughter is Arwen's mother: Celebrían who was ambushed and tortured by orcs before going to the Grey Havens. Plus, in this story, Galadriel never noticed Ori in the Company at Rivendell, and the Lothlorien elves in LOTR weren’t hospitable to Gimli, so they aren’t that close to Erebor or dwarves in general at the moment. Plus they have their own reasons for not telling anyone about Ori, which will be revealed later on… Feel free to comment!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Missing and longing.

**Chapter 8**

**Inspiring song: Blue and alone - Weeping Willows  
**

In my dreams I hold you tight  
I wish that I never let go  
In my dreams I have no fright  
'Cause I'm no longer alone

We will never touch again  
I'm under a spell since you've gone  
We will never kiss again  
I'm under a curse and I'm done  
I feel so blue and alone

_Year 3014 (Ori 149, Dwalin 272)_

 

 

He didn't wallow in his grief anymore.

But he did grieve, only it was more like constantly carrying yet another burden on his straining shoulders, just like he carried the memories of being bereft of his home by a dragon, of fighting a devastating battle on the slopes of Moria, of watching his King nearly succumb to sickness and death. Ori's death and the long years that followed changed the once mighty dwarf into a harsh dweller within Erebor.

"You! Push forward! Use your shield! And you; parry that blow already!"

Dwalin's barks sounded over the training area where new recruits for the guard were being tested through sparring against the more experienced disciples. The old warrior dwarf watched their performance with displeased eyes. No-one seemed to have the natural talent for fighting in this group, which meant more responsibility would be put on Dwalin to make good soldiers of these youngsters.

He never minded his duty, though, for it was the only thing that kept him from leaving his bed and do something useful every day, but his approach to the aspirants had changed too. Their tutor never held lectures with joy, nor gave them compliments or encouraging words when they excelled. Dwalin only ever adressed them on a personal level if he had remark on some mistake that needed to be corrected.

Even so, plenty of adult dwarves joined the academy for future guards yearly, since they still held great respect for the legendary Dwalin who emanated fierceness and competence through experience.

Dwalin braced himself against the handrail that surrounded the sand and created a limited space for the pairs to move in. His knees felt weak and his back tired. He gritted his teeth and lifted his head to catch the attention of one of the onlooking officers that helped him in the task of training.

"Master Gip, end this useless sparring lesson, tell the aspirants they have nothing to do here lest they actually _learn_ from us, and send them running one lap around the mountain as punishment."

"Yes, Master Dwalin," the dwarf nodded and turned to yell at the panting and struggling pairs while Dwalin turned to walk out of the area, his cloak whirling behind him like a dark cloud.

Maybe he was too unfair to the young ones, but he'd be damned if he let another dwarf into the cruel world outside the safeness of the mountain without excellent skills in fighting and defending himself and dwarves around him. He feared for Erebor's fate when he passed to the halls of the ancestors and he was attempting to create a tradition of hard, unyielding training that produced satisfying forces at the command of the ruler.

Dwalin turned a corner and nearly got a dwarf crashing into his chest, but the warrior dwarf easily sidestepped the creature before impact and growled, "Watch where you're going, witless dwarf!"

A young, startled lass looked up at him and Dwalin hated himself for lashing out on those who were innocent of his rage.

"I... I'm sorry, Mister Dwalin. It wasn't my intent..." the lass began but Dwalin was loath to hear her speak apologies when neither of them could be faulted for the almost accident, nor when he was unjust in his reaction. Had Ori been there he would have been ashamed of Dwalin for his rude behaviour, and rightly told Dwalin so.

Dwalin held up a hand to quiet her, then sighed and let his shoulder and scowl drop. "It is I who should apologize for accusing a fellow dwarf when the corner is the real culprit. Just be on your way, there's a good lass."

The young dwarf looked very relieved to not have gotten herself into trouble with the famous warrior, but hurried off in the direction Dwalin came from, most likely busy with an errand.

Dwalin began to walk slower this time, and rolled one shoulder only to grimace at the stiff muscle that reminded him of age and bad sleep. His dreams had once again been riddled with images of him and Ori joined in their bed over and over in the most lustful way until they fell asleep.

Dwalin staggered and placed his palm against the cool wall to collect himself when emotions whirled in his mind and threatened to destroy him. ' _Why? Why do I dream so real about my lost One when I know from my own eyes that he is dead?'_

Dwalin drew a deep breath and heaved himself up and moved towards the great hall and in the end; his home. His once brown hair had recently been traded for a harshly grey tone, his face was set in a frown and clear lines mapped out his foul mood around his mouth and eyes that squinted even in the gloomy light from lanterns in the corridor he went through. Dwalin noted how pale his arms had become, but it was no surprise, considering that he never left the mountain at all.

Even Erebor's miners didn't dwell always in the dark depths, but went outside to play with their dwarflings on the mountain side, or to go to Dale for purchases.

But Dwalin stayed and even avoided the sunlight coming from the great hall when the gates were open. He thought the light too piercing now that he had no bright thing around him anymore to balance with. His once most shining jewel was lost, and with his death, Dwalin perished.

***

Year 3015 passed and with it, Ori’s 150th Celebration day, or what would have been. Dwalin mourned that day and didn’t leave his bed which was surrounded by gloomy darkness in the chamber.

He just couldn’t stay strong this day of all days, when Ori would have been treated with a mountain of gifts and celebrated long until the small hours. Ori would have truly become a mature dwarf, a grown dwarf in his prime who was respected by all. Not a ‘lad’ anymore.

Instead of hurting himself pointlessly by conjuring images of what that day would be like if Ori still lived and hadn’t passed on to the Halls of the Ancestors, Dwalin whimpered under the layer of fur and pressed a fist into his belly which hurt from all the hitching breaths he had taken. The mighty warrior sobbed, but didn’t let any tears fall from his eyes. No matter his loss, Ori would never have wanted him to cry on his special day.

At some point, the soft patter of fur boots filled his home and Dwalin tensed in the bed, scrunching his eyes close as his mind played tricks again. ‘Ori is dead. He will never wander through our home.’

“Mister Dwalin?”

A yellow light entered the chamber when the door was ajar and Dwalin turned his back to the golden Prince and Heir to the throne of Erebor whose hair gleamed like ember in the faint light behind him.

Dwalin couldn’t meet his pupil’s eyes and inquiring question. Not for his own pride’s sake, but for his self-preservation, and maybe some amount of fear at upsetting a young dwarf who wasn’t used to seeing his tutor this wounded.

A moment later, the sound of leather clothes being stretched was heard from the edge of the bed, and Dwalin bit his bottom lip hard, for there was no mistake now that the other dwarf in the room wasn’t his One. Ori hadn’t been raised to walk into a room soundlessly like a warrior. Dwalin recalled how Ori had trotted through their home, hummed songs, bumped into things, and carried so much trinkets and books that they toppled over in loud crashes.

Dwalin was brought back to the present when a strange scent reached his nostrils. Pipe weed, ale, and grass instead of the sweet fragrant of parchment, potatoes, herbs, and ink. If he remembered correctly, Ori had favoured a soap scented with purple flowers of calming sage and juice of refreshing bergamot. Even Oin had praised his choice; stating that sage would soothe a tired and troubled mind as well as keep the user protected from forgetting things. And bergamot seemed to be an over-all healthy herb according to the healer. Or was it a fruit?

Dwalin tightened his jaw and left the pleasant thoughts in order to surrender to the darkness that plagued him. Oin had fallen in Moria, just like Ori and Balin. Dwalin was alone.   

“Go away, Prince. I can’t humor you today,” he managed with a hoarse voice.

A hurt sound escaped Fili before he composed himself and replied. “The King, no, _uncle_ Thorin sent me. We, the Company that is, want to raise a cup to Ori’s memory and wanted to ask if you’ll join us.” 

Hmm, a conscious change from formal speech to informal by his old friend then. Well, stranger things had happened.

“No. Leave me alone, please.”

“Dwalin, do you think Ori would have wished you so destroyed by his death?”

Dwalin growled when he heard the insolent rascal reproach him.

“Until you know you’ve found your One amongst all the pretty lasses in the world, don’t accuse me of over-reacting!” he bit out and heard Fili shift on the spot; worried, but stoically remaining where he was.

“I have acknowledged Nera as my One and future spouse and Queen. I did so three moons ago, but you were cooped up here so I imagine it would have been hard for you to hear the news of my betrothal. I know what iron-strong love means now. But do you think you have the sole right to grieve? Ori was my friend and playmate, too. Kili is chopping wood as we speak to work out the sadness in his flesh. I hate to see my brother so heavy-hearted.”

Dwalin couldn’t help his next, challenging words. “Does he grieve like me? Does it feel like he can’t breathe for the ice that’s clenching around every bone in his tired body? Like he’s being pierced by a boar spear and cleaved in two by an axe? You come back here when you’ve lived 48 winters with your One only to have her wrenched from your arms in the worst possible way.”

It was all but high treason to even imply injuries on both the second royal Prince of Erebor and the Heir’s future One, especially with said Prince as witness.

But Fili didn’t take offence, apparently, although he did bend down and clutch the bed frame at Dwalin’s feet with his strong hands. He whispered calmly to Dwalin, “Mourning is not a competition, Mr. Dwalin.”

The prankster was growing up, getting wise.

Unlike Ori who wasn’t getting older than 129 winters.

Dwalin said in a muffled tone, his voice raw, “Name me one dwarf who’s mourning like me, Fili, heir of Thorin Oakenshield”

Now, however, Fili hissed and anger was barely concealed in his voice.

“Dori, Ori’s brother!” he spat and Dwalin stiffened and wrenched his head around to look at the dark shape before him. Fili pointed one finger in the direction of the rest of Erebor’s inhabitant hall.

“He’s also cooped up in his home, not speaking, not eating. Nori is at his wit’s end. I don’t blame Dori; after all, Ori was like his own dwarfling. So remember that whatever you feel, you’re not alone in feeling that.”

Fili dug into a pocket and pulled out a small satchel which he placed neutrally on the floor next to Dwalin. “Thorin told me to give you these. Eat some, at least.”

When the Prince made to move away, Dwalin shot out an arm and caught his wrist. The jewels on Fili’s rings gleamed in the faint light from the swift movement.

“Forgive me, Your Majesty. It was wrong of me to be so selfish and offend you, your fiancée, your brother, the Company, and Ori’s kin. I fear I am very jealous today. I can’t comprehend that Mahal let you see 153 winters when my One only barely was allowed to become an adult.”

Fili’s shoulders dropped and he suddenly looked weary. “I understand.”

Dwalin bowed his head to express his gratitude for his Prince’s forgiveness. Then he gazed into Fili’s grey-blue eyes. “You said Dori is grieving?”

Fili looked pained. “He’s _broken_ , Dwalin.”

“Then I must see him.”

Unexpectedly, the warrior cast the fur aside and stood from the bed, body aching and creaking at the sudden move. He swept up the little bag from the floor and opened it. Hard and nourishing oat cakes. Thorin was always aware of what his old friend craved even if he himself didn’t heed his body’s want for food.

Dwalin picked one up and began eating as he stalked to the door and found his boots there.

Fili stared at him with youthful amaze. “I… I didn’t mean to force you from bed…”

“I am strong. Ori’s kin needs me.”

Dwalin grabbed his cloak and put on his boots and fastened the cloak over his shoulders. He tossed a key to Fili who even in his confusion managed to catch it easily.

“Lock up behind me, will you?”

Then he moved though the sparsely lit home and yanked the front door open, and Dwalin was off.

He marched swiftly to Dori’s home and knocked powerfully three times. He even couldn’t wait for the inhabitant to come to the door. He announced himself.

“Dori, it’s Dwalin. Open the door.”

“He’s barricaded himself in there.”

Dratted Nori for being able to sneak up on him and giving him a fright! Dwalin whirled around, ready to tell the thief off for coming at his back, but halted his words upon seeing the state of the mischievous dwarf. Wrinkles, tangled hair, sunken cheeks and hollowed eyes grief had struck Nori hard and left him in a state of frailness that was most unbecoming.

“I may not have much honour, but I swear on my mother’s grave that I never bred dwarfling bastards with a woman. So Ori was as close to a son I’ll ever have,” the dwarf confessed meekly.

Dwalin clasped Nori’s shoulder, brought him close, and bent his head to press his forehead familiarly to the red-haired dwarf. “Your grief is my grief, Nori, brother of Dori,” he sighed, acknowledging that others felt like him this day.

He felt a shudder go through Nori. Dwalin could easily see the resemblance between Nori and Ori, and so, he knew what ailed the other dwarf.

“You need your brother,” he mumbled and Nori swallowed before nodding. No grudge towards the former criminal prevented Dwalin from being respectful when he in the next moment knocked once more and nearly made the façade tremble.

“Dori! Open up!”

After a moment of waiting, shuffles on the other side went through the door, then the clinks from the lock were heard. The door was unlocked and swung upon; revealing a Dori Dwalin wouldn’t have recognized if he had met him in the street.

Gone was the joyous but proper expression, the twinkling eyes, and the silken hair that always was arranged in a complicated manner was now in tangles. Long wrinkles ran over his burgundy robe which suggested he had collapsed on a bed without changing into nightwear. Dwalin frowned and bowed for the older dwarf.

“I know what you’re going through, Dori. I lost a brother too, and my One in Moria. We three are kin by love if not blood. Through Ori, you and Nori are my brothers.”

“A brother I can let into my home,” Dori relented and stepped aside so Nori and Dwalin could enter. Dwalin saw the way Nori’s fingers slid over Dori’s bearded chin as he passed; a fleeting display of affection. Dwalin closed his eyes for a moment when he realized that Dori had shared the same chin with Ori. But these dwarves needed him, and he needed them, so he bravely stayed.

He unclasped his cloak and hung it on a hook in the hallway. Nori waved in the direction of Dori’s kitchen. “I’ll put on the kettle.”

Dori waved a hand at his brother. “No need to. I’ve already boiled enough tea to last three days.”

Dwalin shuffled and asked the frayed dwarf tentatively when he felt Nori’s heavy gaze on his back, “Do you intend to stay here for three days?”

Dori turned solemn eyes towards him and Dwalin told himself to not fail him and look away. The mourning dwarf wiped his hands slowly on the rag that hung from his belt whenever he was at home, always ready to wipe, clean, and make the home better.

“Forgive a doleful fool of a dwarf, Mr. Dwalin. I forget my manners.”

Dori proceeded to incline his head politely and utterly needlessly. Dwalin was already breaking the etiquette as he fluently stepped up to Dori and cupped his face to guide his bowed head up so he could press his forehead against Dori.

A surprised noise left Dori and he appeared to want to shake himself free from Dwalin. He protested in an indignant voice, “Mr. Dwalin! This isn’t appropriate! You’re nobility and…”

Dwalin recalled Ori’s occasional concern that a dwarf with his low upbringing could truly stay together with a dwarf like Dwalin.

“Ori was my One, and thus, you are my family. There’s nothing wrong with me greeting kin that’s been elevated through love,” Dwalin cut him off with and leaned back but kept his gentle hold on Dori’s face. He could feel Dori give up and his eyes lifted to meet Dwalin’s, like an equal. Dwalin could feel his eyes watering when Dori’s lips trembled and Nori walked over to sling an arm over his brother.

“Dwalin, I miss him so much,” Dori whispered and somehow it felt nice to be able to protect and take care of another dwarf, to care for his One’s brothers. To feel needed, like he mattered.

Dwalin rubbed his own beard slowly in pondering. “But don’t you think he would have wanted us to be together this day? For him, and for our sake?”

Dori let out a teary chuckle. “Yes, he certainly would have. Our little brother; the peacemaker.”

Nori snorted at that, but his eyes twinkled as he shot Dwalin a playful look, reminding him of all the chases after the mischievous crook in the Blue Mountains when Dwalin worked as a townsguard.

Dwalin rhetorically replied, “Who is better suited for that task, than a scribe who’s insisting on using a slingshot as weapon of choice.”

Nori nudged Dori. “Ha, remember when Ori shot down the hat from the head of his writing tutor?”

Dori frowned at his brother. “A prank I recall you put him up to.” Nori winked cheekily. “Aye, but I never imagined he’d be a natural at aiming. To send a pebble that straight from twenty feet away!”

Dori made a grimace but Dwalin found himself at ease. This was what he needed; to share memories with Ori’s brothers.

“Tell me more of his childhood. I’ve rarely heard of his mischiefs,” he commented and Dori pursed his lips.

“Those were rare, mind you. I didn’t raise him to become a trickster like his brother. But stories should be told when one is comfortable. Follow me to the fireplace and have some tea.” Dori trotted off and Dwalin made to follow, but was stopped by a grip on his sleeve. He turned to face Nori who carried a shit-eating grin.

“Mr. Dwalin; I could tell you plenty of those kinds of stories if you like. Ori has misbehaved many times, but Dori didn’t notice.”

Struggling to hide a laugh that would surely make Dori suspicious, Dwalin put his hand over his mouth and went further inside Dori’s home. It felt better to remember this day as the day when he honoured what would have been Ori's 150th Celebration day by engaging with Ori's brothers.

***

_Year 3015 (Ori 150, Dwalin 273)_

A quiet dwarf with a gentle demeanour was strolling on a path through a softly lit forest one evening.

He had enjoyed yet another pleasant supper in the fine company of his royal hosts and their court. Even though King Celeborn and Queen Galadriel constantly assured Ori that his presence was a delight to them, he still felt misplaced at the table, especially since for all he knew, he could have a very simple past that didn’t naturally warrant dining with the highest of Elven authority.

Ori sighed, and then shrugged to himself. “Well, it could be worse than being served deliscious meals and have great conversations with cultivated elves.”

Today the subject at supper had been how the river Anduin brought prosperity to Lothlorien, as well as to other kingdoms in the south and Ori had been able to contribute with his inputs after being familiar with the locations from his intense reading in the library.

The royal couple had kindly involved him and asked him of his opinion and observation, but when one seated she-elf, who was dressed in armour that suggested she belonged to the officers in the Galadhrim, commented something in Sindarin that Ori barely understood the meaning of, Celeborn had replied in the Elvish language as well.

Ori supposed they had been discussing a matter of security and strategy, especially when he had picked up on the word for ‘danger’.

He had studied Celeborn’s features but the King’s reaction had been composed but his answer to the officer had been a clear command. Ori’s worry had been quelled at that.

Celeborn hadn’t after the officer excused herself and left the dining hall translated to Ori what had transpired. But Ori supposed that had little to do with any suspicion towards him after so many years in Lothlorien. He had no way of contacting any dwarves outside the kingdom who might use the news about the danger against Lothlorien, should he even want to. But he was a drawer without memory, not a spy.

Furthermore, it could be that the she-elf felt more comfortable speaking about defence in her native language rather than a foreign one to include only one more person in the conversation.  

Ori let his thought on dinner fade away and folded his hands on the small of his back and whistled a tune, which surprisingly was answered by a bird up in a tree. Ori raised his head to try to locate the singing, intelligent animal.

He strayed from the path and ventured closer to the tree he assumed hid the bird, trying to locate it with his eyes. But as he stepped with his head turned up, he didn’t notice the beginning of roots protruding from the ground.

His soft shoe caught in one and with a yelp, the dwarf fell forward and breath was knocked out of him when he hit the ground.

Ori didn’t hear the bird anymore, only his own pants. Typical of him to be clumsy and scare the bird away.

He huffed, annoyed with himself and heaved himself into a seated position so he could have a look at his foot that didn’t hurt at least. His fingers pressed and prodded the limb that peeked out from his tunic but nothing seemed injured, thank goodness. He would have to be more careful and observant if he wandered on paths this far from the palace without company.

Ori planted his palms on the moss-covered ground, ready to push himself up, when something caught his eye by his feet. There, in a crevice between root and moss, lay a pebble. No, it wasn’t a pebble. It was larger, able to fit in Ori’s hand.

As if drawn to the object, Ori crawled over to the root and stretched out a hand to work the rock free. It loosened after only a few tugs and suddenly Ori carried a handful of smooth, familiar weight.

He turned the stone over and examined it closely in the dim light. It was coloured evenly with a grey tone he had seen before, only he couldn’t remember its name. The surface was almost deceptively soft.

Ori wrapped his fingers around it and clenched it, then released the grip and continued to caress it with a thumb. The coolness of it felt refreshing and comforting. Ori moved the rock to his face and stroke it over his cheek, then over his neck as pleasant shivers spread across his skin. It felt amazing and he was comptely transfixed with the material.

He slid the rock across the upper part of his chest, below his collarbones where the neckline was ran on the tunic. His body sang like the bird had done at the feeling of the treasure he had found. It evoked some deep meaning in him, speaking of a yearning he didn’t know he possessed.

“Whatever are you doing, Ori?”

Upon discovery, Ori flinched and his arm shot down and concealed the rock in his lap. A tall elf stood on the path and gazed curiously at him. Ori squinted to make out the figure, but then the elf started to cross the moss between them and Ori could see who it was.

He felt relief but embarrassment at the same time when he recognized Celeborn and he could tell his ears were turning red. He brushed some hair over the tips and cleared his throat.

“Stone,” Ori managed and held up the object for the elf-king to see. Celeborn tilted his head to the side and Ori felt a need to explain himself and his strange action. “I like feeling it and looking at it.”

But Celeborn went up to the tree and leaned a hand against it while gazing up at its pale bark and the ceiling of leaves above. “Of course you do. Your body yearns to be surrounded by rock. It is as natural as my race’s affection for trees.”

“How so?” Celeborn looked at him. “You are a dwarf and dwarves are creatures that find homes within mountains and hills. They are very inventive and can create marvelous cities made entirely out of stone.” Then the King lowered his gaze to the rock in Ori’s hand. “Keep that, dear Ori, if you find it calming.”

Ori got up, and remembered to dust off his tunic that was a little dirty from his fall. “But if this is a land for elves; how come I find a rock as large as this one here?”

Celeborn clasped his hands before him and his gaze travelled up and down Ori. “We do have a kingdom at the foot of the Misty Mountains. Old, very old sheperds in some woods could tell you a great deal about how deep and far the roots of mountains run. This stone could originate from one of those roots. Sadly I have not visited the Misty Mountains so I cannot tell if your rock is of the same kind as the stone there.”

Ori marveled at the item with its substantial heaviness in his hand and when he looked up from under his fringe, Celeborn shifted from one foot to the other and said slowly, “Or, perhaps this rock was meant to be found by you. I cannot see your fate in this aspect, but as long as the rock feels fine, you should keep it.”

Ori wettened his lips and stared at the pensive elf. Not that he was scared, more like rattled from what he had been through. And for some reason, he wanted to keep this to himself and not tell Celeborn of all the odd signs he had seen, such as the bird who sang like his tune and tempted him to leave the track, or the root that just happened to be placed there to trip him and make him discover the stone. Maybe it was all coincidences, but given he lived in an elven kingdom, Ori had great respect for the magic in the nature and the inhabitants and a lot of inexpainable things were possible here.

Speaking of inexplainable…

Ori hugged the rock for courage and asked the King, “My friend, why are you here, so far away from the palace and absent guards?”

“Do not worry about my safety, dear Ori. I simply wished to take a longer stroll than ususal this evening, only in company of my own thoughts. This day has taken its toll on the King of Lothlorien and I find the tranquility amongst the trees nurturing.”

Ori’s face was incredulous and he added with implication, “And you just happened to come by me when I had found this rock?”

Celeborn let out a laugh that sounded like silverbells and took s few steps forwards to bend down and pat Ori’s shoulder. “You are more clever and observant than you give yourself credit for. Forgive me, it was not my initial intent to seek you out, but I felt your presence nearby and could not resist seeing what our curious Drawer was up to. That you had come upon the rock when I arrived was something that had nothing to do with me. You posed a much needed distraction from my gloomy thoughts during this walk.”

Ori decided to put the rock in his pocket on the side of the tunic, but his fingertips lingered a moment on the smooth surface before letting go completely. “Had those thoughts anything to do with the danger your officer spoke of at supper?” he asked quietly and Celeborn sighed, then nodded.

“I wish I did not have to inform you of alarming news, but the world is changed. Galadriel is having visions and feels the transition in the water and earth. Something dark is growing and it affects foul creatures who gather close and create forces, if not very organized. We keep a good watch on our borders. Sadly I cannot tell you more of what happened today, for even my own subjects know not. The Galadhrim can handle the defense, but they seek my approval which I gladly give, even if the disturbance ends up troubling me. That is why I seek refuge and comfort in the more silent parts of the forest.”

Ori was glad that he finally was considered to be a person that Celeborn could confide in honestly, like friends. They didn’t only have to have the relationship between a king and his welcomed guest, or that between a healer and his patient. Ori was keen on guaranteeing that what Celeborn said to him stayed between them.

“You have my promise I shall not speak of this to anyone and make them fear for their wellbeing with this evil in the world.”

Celeborn bowed his head in gratitude. Then he turned and began making his way back to the abandoned path. “I shall reassume my walk. Do you care to join me, or would you rather return home?”

 _Home_. As if the King counted Ori amongst his people and didn’t consider him as a guest. Twenty-one years had passed since he stumbled into the kingdom and yet Ori still felt like he never truly belonged in Lothlorien, no matter how kindly Celeborn and Galadriel treated him. Maybe it came down to what Celeborn had told him about dwarves: that they felt at home surrounded by rocks rather than trees. Maybe…

“I feel tired. I think a cup of tea and a bed is just what I need now,” he confessed and watched the King bid him goodnight, then wander off until his shape was swallowed by the fastly approaching dusk.

Only then did Ori move and he lifted the rock from his pocket and examined it one more time before he crossed the moss in the direction from where he had come from.

He hadn’t told Celeborn everything about the rock. How it eased his mind in a similar fashion like a warming cup of tea, how the unyielding, hard surface felt _right_ against his skin when he brushed it against himself. Like a caress from something stern and rough that yet was utterly gentle with him.

Ori made a grimace at his own silly contemplations and put the rock in his pocket, shaking his head with amusement. Even if he was a dwarf with no memory, there was no reason for him to behave strangely with a rock like a raving lunatic, even if the stone felt familiar in a way that wasn’t explained by it probably having been the walls of Ori’s home before he lost his mind.

Somehow he felt less lonely with the weight in his pocket, as if something crucial was missing in his life and the rock was some sort of compensation for that loss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I welcome comments! Soap facts: sage is supposed to be good for your memory and calm, so maybe Ori's frequent use of it will prove to have been proactive and act as some kind of antidote to his amnesia now...? And yes Ori; touch memory is a thing, so listen to what your instincts tell you!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Words of old.

**Chapter 9**

**Inspiring song: Bleeding Love - Leona Lewis  
**

But nothing's greater

Than the rush that comes with your embrace

And in this world of loneliness

I see your face

Yet everyone around me

Thinks that I'm going crazy

Maybe, maybe

 

_December year 3018 (One month before the Fellowship of the Ring enters Lothlorien, Ori 154, Dwalin 247.)._

The dreams were coming to Dwalin often; plaguing his nights and yet offering bliss for his pained mind and old grief.

Dwalin thought that maybe he was becoming sick with age despite he was much younger than the truly old dwarves in the mountain. Maybe memories in his head began to merge and create a terrible mix of pleasant and horrible dreams that he abhorred, and at the same time yearned for each night when he placed a small log on the embers in the fireplace and went to bed.

To meet his One and lover was worth the nightmares that inevitably followed each sweet dream and that made him wake up with sweat, headaches, and heartache.

It was a price the seasoned warrior dwarf was prepared to pay for the privilege of seeing Ori stumble from room to room in their home, baking cookies and filling the kitchen with a scent of sugar, and writing on scrolls for the library at his desk.

Ori bathing in a birch bathtub and vigourishly scrubbing ink from his tender fingertips, while he smiled up at Dwalin who watched him with fondness.

Ori reading contentedly in the fireplace room before snapping at Dwalin for constantly grunting and shifting because of the sore muscles after a hard day’s work with the aspirants for the guard, before Ori got up from his seat to climb behind Dwalin in the other armchair and knead his nape and shoulders until they loosened and Dwalin felt drowsy.

Yes, those moments of real and created memories soothed Dwalin’s longing for his lost One even if he knew that at some point he would either be interrupted in his bliss by nightmares or the brutal morning light.

One winter night, a few days past the winter solstice, the dreaming Dwalin made love to Ori in their bed and called his One 'ink-dwarf', and warmed him in his embrace after their joining under the furs. In a dream within the dream, Dwalin heard Ori gasping hotly against his disfigured ear when Dwalin thrust into the cramping channel of his lover. But then Dwalin was ripped from the pleasant dream and once more thrown into the Chamber of Records in a dark and eery Moria.

Massacred and long dead dwarves lay littered over the floor that had been coloured brown with dry, rusty blood. An almost painfully clear blue light shone upon the tomb where Balin rested, and Ori’s remains leaned against the tomb-stone, surrounded by his thick knitted jumper and bones holding a heavy tome on his lap.

“Ori!”

Dwalin realized he was screaming as he jolted awake. He sat up swiftly, wrenched his eyes open, and breathed hard. His large frame was shivering, damp from sweat from the nightmare, and the warrior dwarf brought his knees up and leaned his tattooed head against them, willing himself to not cry even as sobs wrecked his body. The large bed he occupied was too big for one dwarf, and soaked in anguish.

‘Ori is not alive. Ori is dead. Just like my brother,’ Dwalin thought bitterly. He knew this so why did his sleeping mind have to plague him with sweet memories that seemed wonderfully real and then crush them with the harsh fact that Ori had fallen in Moria back in year 2994; alone, unprotected, and without reconciliation with his former lover?

Dwalin moaned with inner grief before he wrenched his head up and rubbed his hands harshly over his sorrowful face. He let his fingers linger on his heated skin and move about, exploring in their travel.

Not being a vain dwarf, and even less so after he had lost Ori and had no reason to look anything more than acceptable in the mountain, Dwalin had avoided his own reflection for long years, only catching glimpses of his features in empty plates or the undisturbed surface of water in buckets. Now however he saw his face in the dark bedchamber with the assistance of his calloused hands.

Deep lines resembled the shafts of arrows on either side of his eyes. Below his thankfully still clear eyes, his skin was currently puffy and throbbing, most likely from his upset state after the nightmare. Dwalin wouldn’t be surprised if he wore dark moons there for others to see.

He let his fingers wander up his proud, somewhat uneven nose and feeling the bump from the first time he had broken his nose after a dare with an adolescent Thorin that had turned into an ambush by orcs. Between his bushy brows, a dip announced the presence of a vertical wrinkle that seemed to have grown considerably since last he looked.

Dwalin let out a shaking sigh. He must have been scowling for years and years without letting a smile ease his frown. But then again, Ori was his smile, and joy, and happiness, and greatest treasure. What could possibly be worth a smile nowadays?

Interested in that area however, Dwalin let his fingertips run along his forehead, lower by his temples, and feel the tenseness of his clenched jaw from where a lot of his headaches originated, until he arrived at his mouth. Almost tentatively, Dwalin touched the corner of his long ignored mouth. No-one, not even he, had touched the tender skin there ever since Ori and he shared what would be their last kiss.

Trembling fingers caressed his lips as Dwalin recalled perfectly when he had kissed Ori for the last time without either of them knowing it. It had been before the fight that had driven them apart and sent Dwalin into the stubborn pride that severed their bond and kept them separated for years before Ori was lost in Moria with the rest of the colony.

They had kissed when Ori came home from the library that ominous evening, agitated by a careless ambassador from the Iron Hills mistreating the documents.

Dwalin had been frying sausages for their dinner, aware of their craving for meaty meals when his One entered through the door to their home and called out, “If dwarves could vow to show respect and protect scrolls like they do towards their lords and Kings, I would be a happy dwarf.”

Of course, Dwalin had immediately put down the spatula in his hand and walked from the kitchen and into the hallway to greet his One. Ori hung his satchel on a hook in the hallway and unwound the scarf around his neck before putting it in a heap on the shelf Dwalin had built.

“Tell me you’re making supper, because I haven’t planned anything.”

Dwalin grinned and pointed in the air. “Can’t your cold nose smell it? I’m frying sausages.”

“With chips?” Ori wondered with sparkling eyes and Dwalin slumpened his shoulders in mock shame.

“Alas no, my laddie, but I have warmed some of your oat buns, and roasted some tomatoes, if that will please you…?”

“This is why I love you, Dwalin, son of Fundin,” Ori sighed dreamily as he trotted straight into Dwalin’s awaiting arms and buried his nose in Dwalin’s tunic.

“How was your day? Because I will tell you about mine at dinner when I’m less annoyed,” Ori spoked in a muffled tone against Dwalin’s chest and Dwalin stroke a hand over his One’s back.

“I had a terrific day. Went to the training hall to tutor and spar with the recruites. I made five lads fall flat on their backs on the sand.”

Ori made a disgruntled noise and lifted his head, frowning at the taller dwarf. “I’m not sure I shall respond to this, Dwalin. Should I berate you for being unkind to the dwarves under your tutoring, or should I feel jealous for you pushing young, handsome lads flat on the sand all day?”

Dwalin couldn’t contain a smile and he brought one hand to cup Ori’s face and stroke his thumb over his angular cheekbone. “First of all, thank me for making the best soldiers and guards; in the future intended for protecting Erebor and the Royal Family and our friends. As for the lads sprawled at my feet all day, I much prefer having your lovely bum hitting the ground and making you spread your slender limbs under my hungry gaze.”

Ori started to giggle; not really having the reaction Dwalin was aiming for with his seductive words, but laughter was appreciated nevertheless.

“None of that until after dinner. I’m starving!” Ori exclaimed dramatically and just as he made to free himself from Dwalin’s loose grip, Dwalin stretched his arm and groped the round bottom that peeked out from under the hem of the bunched jumper and the soft breeches.

“So am I,” the warrior dwarf whispered huskily and Ori squeaked and swatted at his hand. However he was beaming and chuckling softly at Dwalin’s antics.

“You can have this for now, and more later tonight,” the scribe promised before he stood on his toes and braced himself on Dwalins’ broad shoulders before he pressed his chilled lips against Dwalin’s.

“Hmm,” Dwalin sighed into the kiss before he held Ori tighter against him and nearly lifted him from the floor. A questioning tongue ventured along the seam of Dwalin’s mouth and Dwalin opened up for his lover, letting both of them enjoy each other’s tongues and wet, sensitive caverns.

At length, Ori withdrew and lowered himself back on two steady feet, but his ears were delightfully flushed and his eyes were two stars of light. Dwalin could barely step back from his clearly aroused, but undoubtedly hungry lover.

“You taste of fat and tomatoes,” Ori uttered and Dwalin snorted in amusement.

“Better take you to the table before you try to eat the cook. Come along, my gemstone,” he remarked and spun to return to the stove and the frying pan. Though, he admitted to himself that he was having trouble not picturing lying down with Ori on the table and ravaging the excited dwarf with the food until both their hunger had been sated.

***

Dwalin gritted his teeth and pulled his grey beard anxiously. His fingers had fallen away from the lips when the memory assaulted him.

He groaned and pushed aside the furs across his legs before swinging his feet over the edge of the cooling bed and stood up, naked, tired, and mourning. He couldn’t bear to sleep more this night in that empty bed.

Dwalin went to the chest of drawers and pulled out his drawer to retrieve a pair of breeches and a working tunic. He also tied a long but thin scarf around his large neck to save himself from a cold in the winter-chilled mountain. As he secured the garments with knots and braces, he thought about his constant meetings with such a vibrant Ori in his sleep.

Did all those who lost a One see their loved one in their dreams like he did? Though, Dwalin had no way of looking for an answer. He would be dead before he set his foot inside the library where Ori wouldn’t be present to greet him and guide him with patience and adoration through the sections and many floors in that establishment. The other alternative for his question was also impossible. Dwalin didn’t have the courage to personally inquire amongst the broken families with widowers, widows, and fatherless dwarflings how they experienced the mourning of their Ones. He had that much sense and courtesy in his thick head at least.

As he found his woolen socks and boots, Dwalin considered paying a visit to Dori and Nori. He was welcomed in Dori’s home where Nori sometimes stayed, but to intrude on the brothers at this late, or early, hour and subject them to his nightmares of their dead little brother…

No, Dwalin chose instead to go to his weapon storage and lift out Grasper and Keeper, intent on heading to the training area and wield his weapons against invisible enemies until dawn. When his body surged with strength and energy again he would hopefully forget the lingering details of his dreams.

He was tired of his tired body and mind and the least he could do was reforging his body into something that resembled the legendary warrior he had been many decades ago. Dwalin stepped out into the quiet main hall, one axe in each hand.

***

Two moons past the winter solstice of year 3019 which the elves called Yenearsira and celebrated with thousands of candles to light up the darkness; promising a growing light when winter would turn into spring, in the second month which was named February, a strange party arrived at the city Caras Galadhon, esorted by a stern squad from the Royal army Galadhrim.

Ori had watched them from above with others elves from the court at his side. He had been high up in a large tree and could barely perceive the ragged clothes and the dust on the travelers.

He had been able to count them and found eight figures; four small ones with curly hair and unproportinate feet, one slightly taller but very much broader figure protected by armour, one slender male elf who almost looked exactly like the elves of Lothlorien, and two tall figures who had to belong to the race of men, considering how weary and grim they looked as they urged the others in the company to follow the Elven warriors up a meandering stairway that Ori knew led to the palace where Celeborn and Galadriel would most likely greet them.

The setting sun and the warm meal in his belly however defeated Ori’s curiosity and he decided to go to bed rather than stay up and hope perhaps in vain that Celeborn would find him to tell him more about the strangers. Ori stepped from the group of gathered observers and found a bridge to the left that stretched from one tree to another. That would be the quickest way to his room.

Ori wrapped his arms around himself and shuddered as he walked briskly. The air was cooler at this time of the year, even if the thick ceiling of leaves from the trees kept the ground free from snow and contained heat so some elves could walk barefoot or wear light robes like they usually did.

Ori suspected there was some kind of warming Elvish magic over Caras Galadhon that stemmed from the trees and the rulers Galadriel and Celeborn.

Once Ori reached his blue and beautiful room in the outskirts of the great palace, he began to unload the drawing kit from his tunic and placed them on the small desk that was suited his height.

Maybe he could find opportunity in the following days to draw the current visitors and study their different features. Ori proceeded to take out the delicate silver clip from his hair that kept his fringe from his face. The silver jewelry had been a gift from the King and Queen of Lothlorien.

They had refused to take it back when a flustered and embarrassed Ori exclaimed that he had nothing to give them in return that would match the worth of the clip. Celeborn had suggested that he keep being happy, drawing pictures and giving them to elves as he pleased, and healing his mind with peace instead of misplaced guilt and worry. Even a fool like Ori had realized the importance of not defying a king who insisted, so he had accepted the gift and found it very useful.

With a careful grip on the clip, Ori placed it on top of his drawing book before he strode to the brown chest on the other side of the room, where transparent drapery kept the warmth inside but allowed him to watch the forest around him. The swaying silken fabric caressed his hands when Ori opened the chest and grabbed his milky-white night-shirt.

He quickly unlaced the top of his tunic and lifted it over his head before he reached for the night-shirt and tugged it over himself. He smoothed down his errant strands and yawned. Finally he toed off his soft shoes and trotted over to the spacious bed.

He had been told when he left the healer’s house the year he came to the Elven kingdom that the bed had belonged to an elf-child once. Even so, it was large for a slim dwarf like Ori. He sat on the soft matress and opened the tiny door to the lamp on his night-table to blow out the concentrated flame. Then Ori heaved himself under the blanket and settled down, eyes travelling over the familiar wooden structure in the gloomy ceiling of his room.

He turned his thoughts towards the haggared party from distant lands. Visitors were rare, and a group vastly different from the occasional Elven diplomat even more so.

Ori came to the conclusion that the four little ones must be hobbits. He had never seen one, and he had yet to ask an aged and well-traveled elf for confirmation, but he had read a little about that kind in a book in the royal library. However the book hadn’t explained much, only that they had big feet and grew into small sizes, which Ori had already seen for himself.

Apparently hobbits lived in the upper Western part of Middle-Earth, not far from the Grey Havens that elves sometimes spoke of with fondness. But Ori had yet to guess what the creature hidden under steel armour was, since he differed from the rest of his group. Absently, Ori did the last of his nightly routine and searched under his pillow for the stone he had found to hug it in his hand as he fell asleep.

***

Next morning saw Ori getting breakfast in his room by a servant, most likely because Celeborn and Galadirel were too busy to have him over in the Royal dining hall. Still, Ori enjoyed his cup of herbal tea and Elvish scones with berry jam before he got himself ready to head out with his drawing book.

He ventured down to the dry moss on the ground, planning to capture a budding flower that held the morning light in its rigid petals. The drawer had spotted the flower the day before. He found it behind a thick tree and found a root to sit on before he placed the book on his lap and studied the plant for the first sketches of its proportions with a charcoal pen.

The sounds from the awakening court seeped down to him but didn’t disturb him.

However, just when Ori was done with the flower drawing and had begun making the general lines of Lady Galadriel’s beautiful face, aided by many a memory of her kind features, he noticed that some bushes behind the flower began to wave.

Ori frowned and lowered his dusty hand holding the pen as two creatures in his size came stumbling through the underbrush. Ori’s eyes widened at their hairy, bare feet and their curly hair that almost seemed odd when they were combined with proper, if worn, garments. These must be a pair of the hobbits.

Ori’s excitement grew at this unexpected meeting with figures who were almost as big as he. The shorter of the one widened his eyes when he discovered Ori sitting there, watching them.

“Look, Merry! A dwarf with barely a beard!”

The other frowned at his companion and jabbed him in the arm. “Shh! Be quiet, Pippin!”

Ori just laughed and waved them forward.

“It’s quite alright. I’m aware I’m a strange sight in an Elven realm.”

The hobbits dared to come closer, after Ori bid them, but warned them to not tread on the fragile flower. Once the hobbits stood before him, the taller of the two pushed his chest out before he clasped a hand over his companion’s shoulder.

“I’m Merry Brandybuck. And this is my kinsman Pippin Took.”

Ori bent his head in greeting. “It’s an honor to meet you, Master Merry and Master Pippin. My name is Ori.”

The little males glanced dubiously at each other before Pippin asked, “But what’s your other name? You’re a dwarf; so you must have more names than Ori. Who is your father?”

Ori found his cheeks heating in embarrassment at his lack of response to the inquisitive hobbit.

“Well, Ori is all I know. Except Drawer but the elves have informed me that is only their nickname on me. I don’t remember my true name. I hope I’m not rude for not being able to give a satisfying answer.”

Merry clasped Pippins collar and moved him back a few steps behind himself. “Of course it doesn’t matter! I mean… certainly names matter, as such, but we can accept just Ori. Can’t we, Pippin?”

Pippin nodded dutifully and Ori gave them a fleeting smile before returning his attention to his current drawing of Galadriel. At length, the hobbits inched nearer until they leaned over him to see the picture upside-down.

“Why, Merry! He’s captured the Lady on parchment just like she looks like to our eyes. It looks like one of Bilbo Baggins’ drawings!” Pippin exclaimed.

Ori gasped and broke his charcoal pen in two in sudden shock.

“You disturbed him!” Merry accused his kinsman and looked mortified whereas Ori tried to brush and blow the specks of coal from the delicate parchment to salvage the drawing. A shiver went through him and his mind repeated the statement from the more commonly dressed one of the males.

_Bilbo. Bilbo Baggins._

'Boggins?'

When he looked up, he saw a pale Merry dragging Pippin along while bowing to Ori. “I profoundly apologize on Pippin’s behalf. We’ll leave you in peace now.”

“Wait, it’s fine!” Ori called after their retreating forms but they didn’t heed him. He sighed and held up the picture that now portrayed Lady Galadriel with a large smudge on her cheek. Hardly worth saving.

‘ _I find myself flattered by your portray. Perfection is not always a desirable treat, Ori.’_

Ori worried a lip between his teeth. Whenever Galadriel spoke inside his head, it always startled him a little. Thankfully, those moments were sporadic. He gathered his things and decided to send the drawing with a servant at dinner to Galadriel’s side.

But he did mourn the broken pen and cursed his own clumsiness. He didn’t deny that his violent reaction had been brought on by something the well-meaning hobbits had mentioned. _Bilbo_ resounded in his mind over and over even as he returned to his chamber to roll the picture on a scroll and bind it with a green ribbon, ready to be delivered to the next servant he saw in the palace.

***

Ori was wary of the one dwarf in the strange company. He had adopted the same attitude as the elves that avoided but observed from a distance how the dwarf in heavy armour behaved in their kingdom.

Ori felt a fluttering of some misty memory in his head whenever he laid eyes on the red-haired, round dwarf. Especially something resounded in his soul when the dwarf moved about in the clearing where the fellowship was resting, and all his possessions jingled.

‘Like coins,’ Ori thought.

But Ori knew that the dwarf mostly carried weapons and armoury that made the sounds, so why did he associate the noise with money? It must have been something odd in his mind confusing coin that rhymed with Gloin who the dwarf Gimli had stated was his father.

But despite his measures taken to dodge the dwarf, he one early morning ventured down to the ground. He had been wondering how his spring flower was doing after a few days of growth and as he headed towards the correct clearing, Ori happened to stumble across the dwarf.

He saw no way of escaping without causing offense, and he wasn’t looking for shaming Celeborn and Galadriel’s reputation as good hosts. He was only frightened of how the dwarf would behave towards him, since he had so little knowledge of his own kind from the elves and their rare books concerning dwarves.

Ori stiffened at the sight of the larger dwarf resting against a fallen tree trunk and smoking a pipe that emanated a scent of burned herbs. He wore not his helmet, but the metal chainmail was there, and the gloves. Red hair fanned out on Gimli’s shoulders and his moustaches were long as they fell below his nose and were braided to keep them from being tangled with his ample beard which lay on his chest.

“Why, you are no elf-child, despite the pretty tunic you wear, friend,” came a mumbled comment from the dwarf and Ori glanced down at his plain lilac tunic with the ususal silver chain secured around his waist.

“My clothes are gifts from His Majesty and Her Majesty of Lothlorien,” he stated neautrally, not entirerly sure if the other dwarf teased him or not. Then the dwarf removed the pipe from his mouth and tapped it against the bark of the slowly dying tree behind him so its content fel to the moss.

“Elves gifting fine fabric and silver jewelry to a dwarf? A rare occasion, I say. Almost as rare as finding a dwarf living alone amongst elves yet not being imprisoned.”

The dwarf got up to his feet with a few huffs before he waved his hand to Ori to stave off any assisting hand. As if Ori would approach a stranger without caution!

“I need to stand up to clear my head for this conversation, for I am most curious about you, little fellow.”

As he declared this, the dwarf hefted his hands on his broad belt over the chainmail and lifted his chin. Ori clutched his drawing book to his thinner chest and nibbled nervously on his lip. He could leave and never go near this dwarf for as long as he and his fellowship stayed in elven domain. But Ori couldn’t remember ever encountering a dwarf in his earlier life, and he was curious as to what this male had to say to him.

“What do you wish to know?”

Gimli smiled contently and nodded towards him. “I heard the recent rumours about a dwarf dwelling in these parts of the forest below the palace. Young Master Merry and Master Pippin revealed to the fellowship what they had caught sight of during one of their exploration journeys here. Give me your name, Master Dwarf.”

Ori smiled softly and shrugged. Celeborn had taught him over the years to not feel ashamed for his damaged memory that made him appear like a fool.

“The elves call me Master Drawer.”

However, Gimli clearly demanded further elaboration. “Yes, but what of your given Dwarfish name? Who are your kins? What line do you belong to?”

Ori swallowed past the lump of anxiety and shook his head. “I do not know. I only know that my name is Ori. I have no memory of my past because of an accident that happened long ago. I’ve been here since. I fear I cannot answer your questions, no matter how much I want to.”

Gimli squinted at him. “Ori? A good and yet bad name for a dwarf for it is chosen for many a dwarf. Though, may I hazard a guess on your origin?”

Ori interjected carefully, “Only if I may take a seat here and draw you. Only for my own entertainment, of course. I long to create many drawings of you and your company since you’re something new.”

Gimli gestured goodheartedly at the trunk where Ori could arrange his tools and himself, whereas the other dwarf strode a short distance away from him before turning and peering at him. Ori decided to use a thinner quill for the first outlines of this unusual shape as he began to doodle a portray of the peculiar, insistent dwarf. Gimli’s thick voice sounded through the refreshing winter morning.

“Could you be originating from Ered Luin? Because you speak like Western dwarves when you use the Common language.”

“I fear I cannot confirm or deny your suggestion.”

Gimli kept musing aloud and gestured good-humorly with his hands.

“What of the Dáin line, then, from the North? Or could you be from Erebor in the East? Did you return like many exiled dwarves? Pity I don’t seem to recall you from my home either in Ered Luin or in Erebor.”

Then the ginger dwarf leaned forward and squinted at Ori who grew embarrassed at the close scrutiny, and he fought the urge to lift then book and hide behind it.

“I can see from the shape of your nose and the shining copper hair that you are not a descendent of the Durins like me from afar. Maybe you’re a kin to other families? Do you recognize the Longbeards? The Ironfists? The Fundins? Ringing any bells?”

Ori flinched and dropped his quill.

Fundin! That name kept echoing inside his head after it had left Gimli's mouth.

“Son of Fundin,” Ori whispered more to himself with a frown and Gimli cocked his head in confusion.

“The Fundins? But you bear no resemblance to that line. No offense, but your shoulders are not broad enough, you’re not that tall, and your hands are smaller. Maybe you’re a distant cousin?”

Ori nodded tentatively with lowered brows and picked up his quill, exasperated at the stubborn dwarf.

“Maybe. Not that it matter; I have a life here; the past is of no importance if I cannot remember.”

Gimli’s shoulders sagged a little and his moustaches dangled sadly, but he mused aloud, “While it’s uncommon of a young dwarf to lose his entire memory, it happens that some dwarves get hit on their heads in mines or in attacks and changes. Still, I feel sorry for you. Pity I’m on a quest, or else I would have taken you to a dwarf healer who knows about head injuries.”

Ori squirmed on the tree. He was reluctant and scared by this idea. He would rather not be abducted by a strange dwarf, for his own health and because he didn’t know if he had enemies, or if he was an enemy to some dwarves out there. He had yet to learn who he was before he dared leave the borders of Lothlorien.

He rose from his seat and packed his things in his pockets before hugging the closed book to him. “I’ll finish the picture later and can meet you if you want to see it. But right now I’m starving for breakfast. Good day to you, Gimli, son of Gloin.”

The red-haired seemed to deflaten at his farewell but made no attempt to stop him when Ori left the clearing, unsettled in his empty belly by the many things Gimli had mentioned. Above all, he was becoming worried over his startled moods whenever he met one or two of the fellowship and they evoked unbalance in him. He turned clumsier and dropped pens and ruined drawings while words filled his mind and chased away the concentration and calm he was used to having.

As he walked back to the palace, Ori could barely stomach the thought of eating bread now when the word ‘Fundin’ resounded inside him. Why had his first reaction this time been to speak the words ‘son of Fundin’ as if that was a habit of his?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big things are happening, guys! A massive chapter as a compensation for my uni-induced absence, with lots of new information and plots. I hope you enjoyed the glimpse of Dwalin and Ori's life together before everything that followed the planned campaign to Moria. Here also comes the the dream that appeared in chapter 1.
> 
> In this universe, Gimli had never met Ori before, because they lived in different mountains/cities during the years of exile from Erebor, and Gimli was too small to know Ori when they might have seen each other in Erebor before Ori left. But Gimli must have heard stories from Gloin about the scribe in the Company that had fallen in love with Dwalin only to venture to Moria and die there. The question is, has Gimli recognized Ori, or has Gloin’s action-filled stories failed to include a good description on Ori’s features? We’ll see. 
> 
> And if you’re a vivid fan of this story: seriously don’t miss the next chapter which will be vital to the fate of Ori and Dwalin. I'll see you then!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Visions and mirrors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I'm back :D I apologize for the long wait but work comes first, and I've been exhausted in my free time. I'll try to do better and update faster. Also, a WARNING in this chapter that might be triggering to some people. An almost-drowning situation will occur in the middle of the chapter. Enjoy the read!

**Chapter 10  
**

**Inspiring song: Born to Die - Lana Del Rey**

Lost but now I am found  
I can see but once I was blind  
I was so confused as a little child  
Tried to take what I could get  
Scared that I couldn't find  
All the answers, honey

_February year 3019 (Fellowship rests in Lothlorien, Ori's 154, Dwalin 247)._

More things about the foreign party in Lothlorien aggravated Ori’s peace of mind.

Yet, like a moth, he found himself unable to stay away from the different creatures even if some of them experienced somber moments when they were reminded of their fallen companion. All Ori had heard from rumours was that the dead companion had been a great wizard who inevitably had faced a greater and terrible enemy. He had been lost, and even Celeborn wore a pained face when Ori spotted him at the meals taken in the dinner hall.

However, the strange guests didn’t convey a need to isolate themselves, and they never chased away servants tending to their needs in the clearing where they slept. Nor were the occasional curious younger elf denied a friendly chat.

Ori himself kept looking at the fellowship and painting them from afar. He had been less engaged in conversations wih them after the meeting with the dwarf Gimli. Not that Ori truly believed the dwarf able to spirit him away to some dwarfish healer, but he thought it best to stay in the periphery and only observe.

The drawer admitted to himself that he was troubled by his reaction after the names Baggins and Fundin had come from the lips of one hobbit and one dwarf in the fellowship. But Ori was hesitating to go see the elven healer in the palace. It felt as if these foreign words bore great importance and Ori didn’t really want to be cured from his obsession with them.

He wrote them on empty pages in his book, repeated them like poems with a rhythm in his head, and whispered them to himself when he lay in his bed at night before falling asleep.

***

One evening after dinner with the royalities in the tree palace, Ori wandered down to the ground to stroll to the dock by the river. It was one way out of the kingdom and the latest gossip in the palace had been that the guests had made plans to leave on the river in a few days.

Ori’s intention was to capture on parchment the rarely seen boats with elvish designs in the light of dusk. He rounded a tree and stumbled across a large human reclined against the pale surface of the roots. It was one of the men from the party and he watched Ori just as warily but calmly.

Ori slowed down, then stopped completely and tilted his head to take in the appearances of the red-haired man. The man endured the staring and only crossed his legs under the long tunic. The dwarf concentrated on the man’s face and for some reason he had a sinking feeling in his belly.

He recognized something in the man’s eyes; an urge to take something. Snatch something up and keep it even though it didn’t belong to him. And the red hair… it evoked a feeling of deep longing inside Ori and he couldn’t help but be pulled to the man. He felt intent on soothing the troubled warrior’s mind; to distract him from the unknown temptation to steal that obviously left him bereft of sleep if the rings under his eyes were anything to go by.

Ori cleared his throat and gave a small bow while carefully holding his book and the quill for the delicate lines of the boats.

“I’m Ori, the dwarf without memory,” he said simply and offered a small, disarming smile to show that he didn’t take offense if the other person acknowledged his medical condition. The man sighed and nodded his head courteously.

“I’m sorry to hear that, but I’m honored to make your acquaintance, Ori. Between you and me, you are more cheerful and polite than Gimli. I’m Boromir of Gondor.”

Boromir smiled a little which brought on a different, gentle expression on his seasoned face. “Forgive me my morose state, Ori. I am troubled.”

Ori raised his eyebrows and shuffled closer with that want in his core to make the man happier and not search for something that wasn’t his to possess. How could his gut tell him that this decent, if serious, man had a lowly, dishonourable streak?

Baffled, Ori emitted, “Oh? Perhaps it will feel better if you speak to someone?”

After a moment of silence, he knelt down on the moss in front of the man’s boots and lowered his drawing equipment onto his lap. “That someone could be me, if you’re inclined to speak right now.”

The man’s eyes shot to Ori’s and while his broad shoulders were tensed he began fiddling with his hands on his stomach as if on the verge of telling. Lastly, the man inhaled deeply and began to speak.

“I am dedicated to this quest, now more than ever, when we’ve lost Gandalf and the halflings need protection. But at the same time… My head becomes muddled with thoughts of home sometimes. Gondor needs me too to lead its armies and defend the southern and eastern borders. I fear that the heavy burden has fallen onto my brother’s shoulders now, and he isn’t fortunate to enjoy our father’s affection and support.“

After the hushed confession, Boromir’s face flushed and he lifted a hand to rake his fingers through his hair. In a slower pace, he added, “I venture a guess that what I meant to say is that I find no rest here. So much is at stake and important things are happening far away too.”

Ori moved a braid behind his large ear. “You have a brother?” he asked. Suddenly his own voice sounded muffled for the rush in his ears and he was dimly aware that he was staring at the man, but the vision blurred. Red, straight hair changed length and texture; its colour getting a warmer shade.

Boro… Oro… Or… Mir… Mori…

Ori blinked and concentrated to take in the hazy shape’s voice despite the strange suggestions of letters from Boromir’s name dancing in his mind.

"A younger brother. His name is Faramir. He’s more of a gentle soul, but I love him dearly and he will carry out his duties with honour and wise decisions,” Boromir said.

Ori frowned and the blurred world grew worse. Gentle… _Gentle dwarf. Gentle Ori. Dear little Ori._

“Ori? Are you alright?”

Ori started at the hand shaking his arm and he released a small gasp. Something profound had shifted inside him and it left him both disconcerted and warm. Something familiar long ago had crossed his mind for a moment and it frustrated him to no end that he couldn’t make out anything clear of it.

But instead of running off like in the case with Gimli, Ori this time chose to stay; comforted by the man’s honest worry and the hand that still gripped his arm steadily. Ori gave Boromir a reassuring grin and scratched what beard he had.

“I apologize. It’s the madness of a cursed fool. I’m completely present now.”

Boromir watched him for a heartbeat longer before he leaned back and let go of Ori’s sleeve. The man seated himself against the tree again and pulled up his knees to his chest.

“I don’t think you behave like a fool, little one. Merry and Pippin however…”

Ori burst into laughter and Bormir looked pleased. Ori was still giggling when he requested, “Please, tell me more about your brother.”

But in his heart, Ori was concerned over the continuing lapses in his behaviour during conversations with the strangers. Now he had Boromir’s name, or something like it, written in his head beside that of Baggins and Fundin. And while Ori listened to Boromir’s tale of his childhood and younger brother, Ori’s gaze was fixed on the red strands that waved in the evening breeze. He completely forgot to draw the boats.

***

The next night, Ori reorganized his few possessions in his blue-coloured chamber and redid the bed, if only to feel as if he was tending to his own room and not solely relying on the cleaning to be done by servants who had already visited earlier that day. He felt less like a guest and more at home when he tidied his chamber. His fastidious work kept his recent daydreams at bay, and after having folded each tunic and rolled the silver chains, he put all the items back to their places in his little brown chest.

It was only then Ori realized how late the hour had grown. Some stars could be seen shining in the sky behind the unmoving drapery, and Ori stood up on fairly protesting knees and leaned momentarily against a wooden pillar beside one of the large openings where walls would be if he lived in a realm that didn't belong to elves.

The cool air of winter fluttered in between the pillar and the edge of the drapery, but there was an abiding silence as if the forest and all its creatures waited for something. Ori shuddered and wrapped his arms around himself, deciding to pull on the thicker night-shirt soon.

A sharp whoosh pierced the silence and an explosion of emerald light was seen reflected on a gathering of trees below the palace. Ori nearly lost his balance upon the abrupt disturbance.

The light vanished just as quickly as it had appeared and Ori’s heart thudded when his breath rushed in and out of his body. He glanced down to the roots of the palace but saw no lanterns and heard no sprinting elves. The guards either hadn’t noticed, or didn’t deem this important.

Ori, however, was curious by nature, or the nature he felt he possessed after he had lost his memory anyway, and also worried about the kind fellowship who had set up their camp not far from the emerald flash. Were they alright?

Ori couldn’t possibly go to bed now. The dwarf hurried to the chest and donned a thicker outer robe with blue embroidery on grey fabric over his usual lilac tunic. His fingerless mittens would keep his hands warm.

He left the otherwise sleeping palace undetected, and walked in the direction of the light. Some flowers showered his path with a soft gleam and to his relief, Ori never ran into a frightened member of the fellowship. He stayed on the track and hazarded he must be close when he peeked around a tree and saw the path be replaced by a small stair that led down to a clearing with a basin made from a silver bowl placed on grey stone.

Ori gulped and grasped the bark of the tree hesitantly. Queen Galadriel’s mirror was famous but few ever came across it, even when it was placed so close to the palace. Ori certainly hadn’t seen it before, only heard of it.

Perhaps Galadriel had conjured a powerful spell on the clearing to be hidden at most times, or even to change location in the vast forest. Who knew the limits of her magical skills? But Ori pondered that there must be a reason for why he alone had spotted the green light and then heard the sudden noise from this clearing. He swept his now fully awake eyes over the empty place and that was when he noticed the smoke.

A cloud of white and grey surged up from the mirror which alerted Ori who drew nearer to investigate. No-one was around obviously and fires should be surveyed in a kingdom of trees. Though, come to think of it; how could smoke and possibly fire rise from a water mirror?

Nevertheless, Ori wasn’t deterred by that mysterious aspect and stepped up and looked into Galadriel’s mirror.

The last swirls of smoke vanished and there wasn’t a stench in the air. In fact, it smelled of nothing, so nothing had burned. Ori studied the water in the bowl to see if there was any dying ember in it.

At first, the surface remained completely still and the bottom of the mirror was dark. But not before long, Ori could make out colours with his keen drawer eyes. Contours veiled in shadows grew larger which had Ori squinting and leaning more forward.

A face emerged, awfully blank and unrecognizable for the darkness and mist swirling across the features, but the hair…

A richer tone than Ori’s copper hair, and he wondered for a moment why he was seeing Boromir there, when he suddenly felt a thud in his belly and he whispered, “You’re not Boromir.”

How he knew this was hard to say, but when Ori tried to notice more about the figure, it faded away and was replaced by a rounder creature, equally blurred but with silver hair. Not pristine and shining like the elves of Lothlorien, but beautifully braided and decorated nonetheless.

Ori was overcome by a sense of security and comfort which dulled his mind and caution when the silver-haired creature opened what must have been the eyes but that only showed slits of darkness. Ori started to trembled when the figure stared straight at him with that void in the eyes, and behind him, the red-haired specter returned.

The previous warmth of the hair was expelled when that thing also opened its lids, but these eyes were large, round, and yellow. The creatures stared directly at him and a wall of hisses and feral growls assaulted Ori’s ears but even though he was scared by the sight, he found himself unable to look away, as if his hands were locked on the edge of the stone.

Terror filled his core and the joined figures morphed into dark and filthy creatures that sprouted sharp and rusty things that swung menacingly and rattled. Ori whimpered and he breathed hastily with alarm.

And then the clamour ended abruptly and the fog vanished with the crouching, monstrous creatures. In the deafening absence of sounds and horrifying images, Ori felt numb when his eyes sluggishly locked on a movement.

A tall man strode purposefully towards where the specters had stood before. This time, the image wasn’t undefined. Ori trembled with apprehension when his gaze flitted over the clear male.

It was a dwarf looking so unlike Ori; in armour fitted for his towering stature, with bulging muscles, scars, and tattoos adorning his exposed arms and bald crown. The dwarf carried himself with an air of confidence, bordering on arrogance, as he stood with heavy boots apart and crossed his arms over his large chest before raising his jagged nose into the air.

Ori’s heart sped up and he was convinced that he knew that brute. The other dwarf may look like he was able to cause much damage to his environment with the power in him. But instead of terrifying the artist like those figures earlier, this dwarf only made Ori feel contented, like the last bite of a deliscious biscuit, or sitting on moss and watching a spring flower open its buds and bloom for the first time.

The foreign dwarf lowered his face an inch and fastened his illuminated gaze on Ori and to Ori’s utter confusion; the male dwarf’s lips formed a charming smile that brought out crinkles around his delighted eyes and the brown beard shook when he clearly laughed.

Laughter threatened to build inside Ori, too, oddly enough intercepted by nausea.

He was about to open his mouth to let out a chuckle when he blinked and noticed how light was shining from above.

His face was under water.

Glee turned to a constricting panic and Ori frantically searched for the dwarf with his eyes but he was gone. A great despair shook him and Ori opened his mouth to call for him, even though he couldn’t possibly know his name. Cold water rushed in and Ori couldn’t breathe.

He was abruptly yanked back with such force that his knees failed him and he fell onto moss. He coughed and chunks of water left him gasping for air when his throat wasn’t filled anymore. His hair dripped in a circle on the ground around him and Ori panted when he looked up to see the one who had pulled him back and still held him firmly around his middle while Ori sputtered.

Haldir, the serious captain of the Galadhrim, whose unyielding armour dug into Ori’s back and reminded him of the present, had saved him.

“You are safe now. Breathe, little one.”

Hasty instructions left Haldir as he shifted on his knees which brought him even closer to Ori’s wavering upper body.

Half-drowned and confused, Ori could only sag against the elf who studied Ori’s drenched face carefully over his shoulder as he shouted for Celeborn in the Common tongue, “My King! Drawer needs help.”

Ori suffered from a headache and he shivered, but not from the mild night or the damp collar of his thick robe. Fright chilled his bones from the sights in the mirror.

Celeborn, followed by his Queen, hastened down the stairs and then Celeborn hurried to the their side, and fell to his knees as if ignoring the stains the moss would leave on his fine tunic and robe. Celeborn looked frayed and cupped Ori’s face and guided it up into the light of the flowers. His thumbs pushed back the dripping strands that lay plastered on Ori’s cheeks.

“Galadriel, send for a bowl of calming draught, cloths and a towel.”

The King spoke quickly but showed a thin smile to Ori’s large, staring eyes as the dwarf tried to find his countenance again after the shock of almost drowning.

Behind him, Haldir tested Ori’s balance by releasing him a fraction and leaning back. When Ori managed to sit on his own, the captain stood up and explained, “Your Majesty, I saw the dwarf leaning over the mirror before he dipped his head in. His eyes seemed mesmerized by something in the water. I raced down the stairs when he did not resurface and I saw him letting his mouth fall open. That was when I reached him and pulled him up.”

Celeborn nodded just as a healer arrived along with Galadriel who looked weary, almost aged, for some reason. Ori observed her paled cheeks and bare feet.

The healer was bringing the requested bowl with a cloth floating in its content. Lady Galadriel herself stooped to place the dry towel over Ori’s damp shoulders while Celeborn took the bowl from the healer and wrung the dripping cloth before applying it to Ori’s forehead.

The dwarf hummed with query at the cool feeling. A heavy scent hung in the air and Ori mumbled through tired lips, “What’s that smell?” replied as he dabbed Ori’s temple, “It comes from herbs in the water I soaked the cloth in. It’s athelas for ease and joy, and sage for your memory. It will do you good now.”

Perhaps the juices of the herbs worked quickly, for in an instant Ori grew aware of his sights, and he felt it was essential that Celeborn knew, too. He began to tell the elves of what he had seen.

“It wasn’t so bad at first. But when two figures changed, I was scared by them. They became dark creatures with rattling weapons and yellow eyes, or barely eyes at all.”

“Orcs have ugly yellow eyes, or thin eyes meant for darkness and not sunlight,” Haldir remarked gravelly.

“Orcs?” Ori whimpered with dread, recalling the distressing description of those foul beasts in one of the books in the library. Celeborn turned to Haldir and his voice was taut with authority.

“No more mentioning of those wretched creatures tonight in Ori’s presence. However, _hannon le_ Haldir for your ability to act so quickly. You will be rewarded for saving Ori.”

The captain of the Galadhrim accepted that he had been dismissed by his King and left, hand on his hilt.

Ori sat slumped and hung his head in shame for having taken advantage of one of Lady Galadriel’s possessions. His little exploration in the forest hadn’t turned out as he had intended.

He emitted, “I beg your forgiveness, Your Highness. I meant not to cause disorder and be a nuisance so late in the night. There was a green light here and I wanted to make sure that our guests were safe. I apologize for using your mirror without permission, my Queen.”

Galadriel knelt down beside her husband who slid the cloth over Ori’s neck. To Ori’s surprise she was smiling but pain was present in her eyes. In a not reproachful but merely tired voice she replied, “You chose this day of all days to look into my mirror, Master Drawer.” “What day…?” “The fourteenth day of February. The ancient day of love: _Mela-re_ , which is not a collective feast, but celebrated in private between those who love one another. In the Common tongue it would be called Love-day. I hope the images in the mirror did not show anything upsetting of the loved ones you have forgotten.”

Ori didn’t think he had seen anyone from his past, but he wasn’t completely sure how to interpret the feeling of safeness when he had gazed upon the two specters with different hair, before they transformed. He tilted his head.

“How can a mirror reflect not only my own face?” Galadriel shared a look with her husband before he nodded and she spoke.

“To some, the mirror would serve its purpose and present nothing more than a rippled reflection to the beholder. But to others, it can show things from different times.”

Marveling at her revelation, Ori peered up at her through his wet fringe and admitted sheepishly, “Despite the initial horror, I mostly saw but one dwarf.” At his confession, a playful glint returned to the Queen’s eyes.

“Maybe he is part of your past, present, _and_ future, then,” she suggested. Before Ori could say anything in return, Celeborn placed his hand on his arm and helped him to his feet.

“Come with me, Ori. We have your health to discuss.”

The present healer took the towel and cloth from Ori and turned to Galadriel to whisper something. Subdued by the King’s statement, Ori obediently walked beside Celeborn who guided him out of the clearing and to the garden Ori recognized as their private session place where he encountered Celeborn whenever he felt the need to talk about his feelings and his mind.

The elf somehow conjured Ori’s sketch book and charcoal pen as if from thin air, and gave the items to Ori before seating himself on a bench made of a bending, living root. Ori contemplated the large space beside Celeborn, but decided to sit on the soft moss this time. He crossed his legs and bent over his book to find an empty page to begin another drawing of his confidant.

“Tell me again. What did you see?” the elf asked. Celeborn let himself be drawn whenever Ori felt the urge and now, a small smile spread on his smooth face. Ori drew a bold line that was going to be Celeborn’s right side, before he opened his mouth.

“Just shadows at first. Red and silver hair on top of them. Then the shadows became awful beasts with weapons. I was terrified but then I saw… the dwarf. A dwarf in armour. I saw him clearly, and he seemed… large. Tall and muscled. I felt both calm and excited. Who is he, Your Highness?”

Celeborn smiled gently. “That is for you to find out, Ori. It sounds to me as if you knew him before. Maybe you should spend more time thinking of your visions in the mirror? Draw his portray and search your mind?”

But Ori fumbled to remove his fingerless mittens and glanced down at his lap anxiously. Silently, he admitted, “I’ve had other visions, too. Sometimes repeated words of nonsense, sometimes visions merging with what I see in broad daylight. It all started when the fellowship came here.”

Celeborn folded his hands in his lap and emitted quietly, “You are soon strong enough to venture outside our borders if you desire to seek answers there. I can have you accompanied by an escort of the Galadhrim, of course, because the world has gone darker, especially on the unprotected roads. Your mind needs only a little more healing before you have shaken off your illness. But I am surprised that you have not shared your many visions with me earlier.”

Ori ducked his head down and worried his lip.

"Maybe I should have told you, but I don’t wish to bother you when you are busy ruling and protecting the borders,” he let out.

Celeborn stated carefully, “You are a dear friend, a pleasant presence in my palace, and a dwarf in need of my healing. It is perfectly acceptable if you feel the need to seek me out for guidance and conversation. I shall make time for you.”

Ori found himself blushing at the flattering words from the King and he squirmed in his almost dry robe. Celeborn leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “Ori, _mellon_ ; never think less of your worth in my eyes. I may be King, but even Kings need friends. But if you ever doubt my ability to make time for you, you can seek out Galadriel for advice and company.”

Ori looked up at Celeborn and admitted, “She seems exhausted, if I may be so bold, Your Majesty.”

Celeborn sighed and his forehead creased. “She has been through a trial tonight. That was the light you saw by the mirror. My love to her will make her better when a few days have passed.”

Ori didn’t dare inquire more about the strange emerald light and the ‘trial’ even if he yearned to know. If Celeborn was reluctant to admit more, that was something Ori wasn’t meant to know anyway.

“You can go to her, Your Majesty. I’m fine now. I’ll not think about the orcs or the specters I saw, only the dwarf.“

Celeborn raised his hand and tapped a long finger against his chin. “Athelas does wonders for anxious minds. But if I am to see to my wife, you will lack a listener. Although, there may be another here. Maybe I can arrange a meeting with one particular member of the fellowship? He is very observant of the workings of creatures. He is skilled with healing and wise from age.”

“Who is he?” Ori wondered and secretly wished for anyone but the persistent Gimli who had been very determined to solve the mystery with Ori’s lost memories.

“His name is Aragorn, son of Arathorn.”

Oh.

Ori realized that must be the one member of the fellowship he hadn’t observed that much. He had even studied the elf Legolas more than the smoking, cloaked man who appeared to be the leader of the party.

Suddenly feeling nervous to open his heart to that stranger even when everyone else in the fellowship had turned out to be friendly, Ori stuttered out, “I’m afraid to be completely healed. The uncertainty of my past frightens me. What if I suffered before my memory failed me and I came here? What if this dwarf and others in the visions were cruel to me? I like my life here. Don’t ask of me to struggle to remember, because I can sense that there’s something terrible dwelling in my head!”

Ori pleaded with the King. He didn’t dare to make more lines on the sketch when he felt so upset. Celeborn lifted a hand and pointed at his own temple.

“The darkness that plagues your memory is waning. Other things, other people, will take its place in your mind. Accept the transition and do not cling to the black veil of _trauma_ that once completely concealed your memories,” Celeborn advised before standing and coming over to brush his long fingers over Ori’s fidgeting ones. Ori looked up at the tall creature, looking for guidance but afraid of challenges.

“Life consists of passages, Drawer. Like the tree grows buds each spring, blossoms in the summer, loses its leaves in the autumn, and slumbers through winter; so must our races change as time passes. We watch our little ones grow up and become splendid people before we all in time age and wilt. Accept this life and make sure to explore your discovered memories, for they can enlighten you how you came to be who you are today, and who you can be in the future.”

Celeborn stepped back and left the garden while Ori stared at his unfinished drawing. Then he tilted his head and squinted. The two lines of Celeborn’s sides could be seen as the outlines of a dwarf’s big nose. Or more specifically; the long, uneven nose of the dwarf Ori had seen. He picked up the charcoal pen and licked his lips in concentration as he carefully began mapping out the details he remembered from the face in the mirror.

Ori made the sketch, then another the next day, and then another. Despite the fleeting moment he had spent looking at the dwarf through a water mirror, it seemed important that he drew him right. And the face seemed imprinted in his mind yet was hard to transfer onto parchment, but Ori struggled on.

***

Some nights later, Ori dreamed of rough, large, and calloused hands that definitely didn’t belong to him but that still didn’t seem hostile. He woke up as he babbled into the emptiness of his chamber, “ _Anírion Dwalin_.”

His heart was racing and he clasped his hands and pressed them over his racing heart.

He wondered why he spoke the word in Sindarin for _I want_ or _I desire_ and then a gruff word that must be dwarvish, or even belong to the ancient language of Khuzdul because the word filled his mouth thickly and affected his accent.

He sat up in his bed so the blanket pooled by his waist, and he fiddled with his night-shirt and stared into the waning darkness, listening to the silence before dawn arrived. He braved to repeat the foreign word that felt like a name.

“Dwalin."

The name seemed familiar and comfortable on his tongue.

“Dwalin.”

He rolled to lie on his stomach as he reached for the keepsake he hid under his pillow. His hand found the grey, smooth stone and Ori cradled it in his palm and kept repeating the word Dwalin into the stone until he fell asleep once more at the brink of dawn.

In a different part of the palace during that very moment, Gimli managed with Legolas as translator to request a dove.

The dwarf stroked the snow-white feathers of the cooing bird before tying a message in a small tube to the bird’s leg and releasing the animal to the purple sky.

The dove was flying to Erebor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gimli to the rescue (or meddling more likely)! Action will definitely kick in now that bdwarves are about to be involved... It seems like Ori is remembering more fragments than ever and not only about Dwalin but about his brothers as well, and Moria. Personally, I'm very satisfied with the mirror scene, which in case it's unclear, takes place right after Galadriel had seen Frodo there on the 14th of February according to Tolkien's canon. So I made Valentine's day into an elvish feast that also affected Ori. The green light, the noise, and the smoke from the mirror are all there in the movie when Galadriel transforms.
> 
> I hope you liked this chapter. :)


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A winter's quest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, it's actually a new chapter. I am trash; I'm soooo sorry for the wait. I just couldn't find much energy for hobbies such as fanfiction this autumn when I had so much to do at work. Plus, I confess other fandoms inspired my writer's soul but I've had drafts ready for this story for a long time, so the spirit of this story hopefully haven't changed during my guilty hiatus. Thank you all for enduring the wait and giving me encouraging comments and kudos. Please, enjoy this chapter and I promise you won't have to wait seven months for the next update!

**Chapter 10**

**Inspiring song: Rak Bishvilo (translated into English) - Moran Mazor**

Only for him,  
I forget the cold  
And thanks to him  
I find light in the darkness  
Only for him,  
I will cross the borders  
Only with him are the answers to questions

_Late February year 3019 (Fellowship has left Lothlórien, Ori's 154, Dwalin 247)._

In the middle of winter the slopes of Erebor were covered in cold, massive chunks of frozen snow.

Some inhabitants of the mountain worked daily to prevent the falling snow from blocking the path down to the roads leading to Dale and Laketown. Hardly anyone but shovellers, hunters, messengers, patrols of scouts or the occasional merchant ventured outside Erebor in the winter.

Inside the mountain, enormous fireplaces for crafting and comfort kept the population warm while they huddled within stone walls and awaited springtime. Dwalin stayed inside too, but he wasn’t resigning himself to age and idleness. Instead, the seasoned dwarf trained again.

He was rebuilding the strength in his back, regained the bulging shoulders and felt how his limbs had longed for this stamina to return. The surge of energy and life-giving blood through his veins made the dwarf feel more powerful and like a force to be reckoned with again.

The dreams of Ori were kept at bay when he fell into bed exhausted each night. Still, Dwalin felt reluctant to risk his new body. He was admittedly old and and old gaffers shouldn’t be so foolish as to wander about through icy wind and deep snow. Dwalin didn’t _dare_ risk his health outside.

He was impatient to see spring arrive so he wouldn’t feel like a coward hiding in the training area and pushing guard recruits into the sand. But the cracks in the shell he was erecting to ward off painful memories remained and made themselves known when he least expected it.

One market day people saw the warrior dwarf moving with urgency through the streets of Erebor’s great hall.

With his heart in his throat and unease in his belly, Dwalin all but sprinted towards Dori’s home and knocked gingerly on the door. After a while, his now white-haired kin opened the door and clasped his hands together with joy upon seeing his friend.

“Mr. Dwalin! What a pleasant sursprise. And just in time for tea…”

Dori’s broad smile faltered when he noticed how Dwalin shifted his weight from one leg to the other and nervously twined grey knitwear in his coarse hands. He held two wrist warmers meant for wearing beneath bracers so to spare the skin on his arms. A present from Ori on one Midsummer day long ago, to be worn when winter ruled and the armour grew cold and chafing against bare skin.

Dwalin’s broken voice revealed his upset state as he all but pushed the items against Dori’s frame. “I don't know how to mend it. Please. Ori crafted it for me.”

The two dwarrows looked down at the great gaps between some stitches, the thin thread at one end of the wrist warmer, and the many strings that were already torn and hanging loosely like roots from a tree.

“I know,” Dori said with a clipped tone.

When Dwalin tensed and tears gathered in his desolate eyes, Dori added in a softer tone, “I reckognize his pattern in the yarn. Give it to me. I know how to make a stitch or two. But do come in and share some tea with me. You’re clearly in need of a cup.”

Dwalin sniffled in relief as he dutifully wiped his boots by the doorway before following the older dwarf through the hallway. Nori’s aging brother bid him sit down in an armchair before he served him an exclusive brand of tea and then sat down in a twin armchair.

Dwalin took a sip from the steaming drink and cautiously regarded how Dori placed glasses on his nose and peered at the torn threads.

“No disaster here. I’ll have it mended within three burned candles,” Dori emitted and began rummaging through a basket containing needles in various shapes and balls of thread beside the chair.

Dwalin sighed and his heart returned to its usual place in his chest. “Thank you.”

Dori looked up and the wrist warmers in his lap, one damaged and one still fit for comparing to the original design, were left alone for a moment.

“I probably should tell you that knitwear which has seen almost thirty winters is bound to be fragile and threadbare. The most sensible thing would be to throw it away.”

Dwalin put down the cup on the saucer clumsily so the porcelain clattered.

“I can’t bring myself to… I know I’m a fool of a dwarf, but I can’t get rid of a piece from him. Not when there’s love in the things he gave to me. I can’t bear to do the deed, Dori.”

The minute frown on Dori’s face when Dwalin mistreated the tableware melted away when he heard the other dwarf’s ardent reasoning.

“I’m not asking you to do that, Dwalin. I’m merely stating that it’s inevitable that trinkets get old, too, even when filled with love and devotion. I myself still keep the tunics and toys that Ori outgrew.”

Dwalin leaned back in the seat and made a surprised sound. “And here I thought I was going to get a reproach in exchange for mended wrist warmers.”

Dori smirked wryly and picked up the neddles again. “We all have our strange ways and odd habits.”

Dwalin nodded in agreement and the two dwarves enjoyed their tea in silence the whole afternoon until one candle had burned down. At that time, Dori demanded a rest and told Dwalin he was welcome back in two days when the restoration of the worn wrist warmer would be finished.

Dwalin left with a lighter heart.

* * *

 The work Dwalin put into bringing his body back to shape didn’t go unnoticed. His King requested a meeting in the Royal chamber and upon his arrival, Dwalin acknowledged his old friend with a low bow in the doorway.

“I am present, Your Majesty.”

Thorin snorted at the, in his mind, unnecessary etiquette and waved away the servants that currently occupied the warm chamber as well.

“Will I ever be able to make you not address me so formally while in private?” Thorin wondered as the last servant exited the room and Dwalin gave him a lopsided smile.

“I guess not.”

Thorin grabbed Dwalin by the arm and squeezed with familiar glee.

“Oh, well. I believe I may overlook the atrocity since you’re taking care of yourself so well. I hear you’re sparring again, my friend.”

Dwalin flexed the muscles in his arm so it swelled under his King’s measuring touch.

“Aye, if I’m to keep the position as Captain of the vanguard, I better look the part, don’t I?”

Thorin grinned back and let go of Dwalin. The King Under the Mountain turned to the crackling logs in the fireplace and bent to nudge the burning pile further against the wall where the embers eagerly licked the dry wood. So many years of ruling as a King, and Thorin still tended to his own fire as he always had.

With his back to Dwalin, Thorin gestured towards the sturdy, large desk by the other wall. It was littered with parchment, letters, and treaties.

“Come here; there’s something I want you to have a look at.”

Suddenly tentative, Dwalin trudged over to the table. After all, written words in different languages and their hidden meanings were harder for Dwalin to translate than the angle of a blade swinging his way, and where it would hit if he didn’t parry in a certain way.

“This was Balin’s area, not mine,” Dwalin complained but Thorin had lost the unguarded merriness and didn’t retort. Instead he reached out and picked up a recently opened letter, given how the parchment insisted on rolling in on itself.

Thorin smoothed out the letter and glanced at Dwalin. Dwalin frowned at the way Thorin preferred to stand rather than sit down in the comfortable chair by the desk; a clear sign that the King was bothered by something.

“This message arrived with a dove this morning from Elvish lands. It's Gimli, Gloin’s lad, who’s written it. He has joined a fellowship from Rivendell on a secret but paramount quest. Apparently he can’t give us much details about the quest, but he does say that they are in Caras Galadhon now; a city of Lothlórien. Gimli…”

Thorin peered over the top pf the letter and paused while he regarded Dwalin. “This is why I have need of you, even if it pains me to ask this of you when fate decides to play a cruel game.”

Dwalin frowned and leaned closer when Thorin’s voice was subdued.

“What is it that you have to ask of me?” Dwalin muttered and blue eyes met his.

“Gimli has met an ailing dwarf in the Elvish kingdom. I need you to go and get that dwarf out of there.”

“You know I’m too old to leave Erebor. Why should this be relevant to my duty to Erebor?” Dwalin challenged, still feeling more confused than rebellious.

Thorin turned the letter in his hand and passed it to his friend.

“Then I suggest you read for yourself. I think you’ll find the dwarf in question particularly interesting. But first, Dwalin; I’m sorry for how fate treats you,” Thorin stated slowly.

As he lowered his bushy brows in discontentment at the growing mystery, Dwalin held Gimli’s letter close to his eyes, not wanting Thorin to go and get him a pair of reading glasses.

 _14th of February, Year 3019_ ,

_Your Majesty, King Under the Mountain, Lord of Erebor, Ruler of the Lonely Mountain, Thorin II, son of Thrain,_

_My fellowship and I have arrived in Caras Galadhon, the great city of Lothlórien. We came from Rivendell on a mission upon which the free lands of Middle-Earth depend on. I cannot tell you what it entails, but it is important enough to let us enjoy elvish hospitality right now, such as it is._

_However, the reason to why I am sending you a letter, Your Majesty, is the creature I’ve stumbled across here in the palace. A dwarf lives here with the elves. He is a short fellow and probably older than I am. Is is difficult to determine his age with the ease and lack of lines on his untroubled face. This dwarf cannot help me with many details because he is sick. He cannot remember his life, you see, and it is nearly impossible to get the truth out of the blasted pointy-ears. They only say he came to them many winters ago ailing from trauma, whatever that means._

_Somehow they know his name really is Ori, but you know how many dwarrows from the West, North, and East are called that. This Ori does not recall his full name, but I helped him figure out that he is of the Fundin line. Perhaps Dwalin may reckognize a distant kin?_

_I have seen this dwarf paint with a rare talent outside the palace. He is uncommonly gentle and cautious like spying elves hiding on branches above me instead of engaging in conversation. It seems he has adopted many elvish customs. He is wearing their clothes and jewelry, whispering in their language. He often dwells behind the elves who treat him like a friend. He walks freely, at least around the palace but I cannot tell whether he is allowed to leave at all, or if the elves are using sorcery or medicine to keep his mind befuddled and harmless._

_He can speak the Common language, but he speaks so clearly and with an elvish accent that I cannot understand if he comes from the dwarf lands of the North, the East, or the West. It sounds like he is originating from the West._

_But I believe that you, Your Majesty, will know how to proceed, especially since you are my King and I report foremost to you, before other dwarf lords. Furthermore, Erebor lies nearer Lothlórien, since dwarves of Ered Luin would have to cross the Misty Mountains to get into the kingdom._

_My own fellowship will leave this current sanctuary from the wilderness in a few days, so I suggest you make up your mind fast if you choose to investigate this dwarf. He will be left alone with the elves again when I leave soon and can no longer keep an eye on him. I pity him and wish he could be with his kins, even if he is damaged in the head. After all, we all care about uncle Bifur and perhaps there is a way for us to treat a head wound on a dwarf?_

_May the Lonely Mountain be blessed._

_Gimli, son of Gloin of Erebor._

* * *

 Ori…

Dwalin closed his eyes from pain at the reminder of his own loss.

With a choked voice, he stammered, “I see now why you warned me. The familiarity of that name…”

For a moment, Dwalin had thought that Mahal had rewarded him for his many prayers in the past, before Dwalin realized how impossible that idea was and that he had accepted Ori’s death long ago.

Thorin clasped a hand on Dwalin’s shoulder as if to rein in his shocked warrior. “So many dwarrows of different ages carry that name. I’m so sorry you had to read the name again like this. However, maybe you as a dwarf representing Erebor can look into it?”

Thorin gently tugged the letter from Dwalin’s grasp and placed it in the middle of the scattered messages on the desk. With a businesslike air, the King clasped his arms behind his back and began pacing in front of Dwalin while speaking freely.

“So, this dwarf apparently claims to be an offspring of the Fundin line. But he is too short for that, according to Gimli. Unfortunately, Gimli doesn’t write more about the characteristics of this stranger. I think it’ll suffice to look for a small dwarf who is older than Gimli. After all, can’t be too many dwarrows living in Lothlórien.”

“But there is none of my family left,” Dwalin said incrediously.

Thorin tilted his head to one side, considering the situation. “Are you absolutely sure? Could it be an impostor seeking a share in your wealth from the treasure? Or could it be a distant family member?”

Dwalin hummed uncertaintly. “Maybe. A distant, unknown branch of my line. A bastard one perhaps.”

Despite the lack of description and facts, it still spurred Dwalin on to be on his way and find answers. Thorin brushed his hand down his greying beard and the rings on his fingers clinked against the jewels in the beads that kept his braids intact.

“Gimli writes that this dwarf has taken after elves, and is shy and hides amongst the elves, as if he trusts them completely, or is forced to.”

Dwalin raised his head. Oh, how very clever Thorin was. To appeal to Dwalin for arranging a rescue mission for a lonely, ill, possibly captive dwarf… Thorin knew his oldest friend had a soft spot for gentle folk. What else should raw strength and fighting skills exist for if not for the protection of those who were weaker? Dwalin hadn’t dedicated his life to the craft of fighting for the sake of glory or something equally insignificant while there were dwarves to keep safe and defend. Ori would have wanted him to go.

Resolve was kindled in Dwalin’s core.

“Fine, I’ll go. What is your order?”

Thorin nodded and looked grim as he leaned over with one hand flat on the desk. Steel glimmered in the King’s blue eyes.

“If a subject of mine is kept there by elves, I want him back. As fast as possible. Even if the snow hasn’t begun to melt, and therefore I trust you with this. Especially now when you’re back to your form. If it turns out he’s not of Erebor, report back so I can message the lords in the Iron Hills and Ered Luin. Elves, bah! Can they ever be good hosts to dwarves? Remember the treatment we received from Thranduil in Mirkwood!”

“I recall it, Your Majesty,” Dwalin interrupted before Thorin could work himself into a frenzy over that slight long ago which Thranduil had compensated tenfold for in the years after the great battle on the hills below The Lonely Mountain.

Thorin grunted and held out his hands at his sides. “I want you to go and see this dwarf and also report back if you believe it’s alright to bring him to Erebor.”

“I see, but why me, Your Majesty, if I may ask? Surely there are younger, more eager lads in the vanguard who could bring this dwarf back.”

Thorin lifted his face proudly so his nose pointed upwards. “I choose you because I trust you with my life, and my kins’ lives, as the Captain of my vanguard. You will represent me correctly. Also, I believe you do possess some of the diplomatic slyness that Balin had. You can solve this matter.”

Dwalin muttered, “You speak as if I’m to free a captured dwarf from enemies. The elves are our allies, Thorin. Even if we rarely speak to them, they are allies against the dark creatures.”

Thorin gave him a grim look. “There must be a reason to why we only hear of this Ori after Gimli has met him. I suppose no other dwarf has entered the woodland for ages. But why would the elves choose to hide away one of our own? Find out why, and see if he’s a hostage or a prisoner.”

Dwalin decided to address his King and not merely his childhood friend, since the other dwarf appeared aggravated by the elves.

“Your Majesty, won’t you be concerned about complicating the relation with Lothlórien, and maybe Rivendell and Mirkwood as well?”

Thorin replied icily, “Even I have limits if a dwarrow is kept in bonds there for many winters. This requires subtle secrecy. See if they intend to use him as leverage against us, if the dwarf has been mad from the start, or whether he can be cured by any means or healers we have. I trust your judgement, should you find it best to free him and bring him here _even_ _if_ that would anger the elves.”

Dwalin felt the burden of the task fall upon his shoulders, but they were broad enough to take on the amount of responsibility.

The priority was to free the dwarf, sooner rather than later, even if it may come at a price of violence and hostility between Erebor and Lothlórien. Though, Thorin seemed to prefer Dwalin managed the covert quest with a façade of diplomacy.

Dwalin bowed at Thorin and accepted the task. “And you wish me to leave immediately?” he asked.

Thorin smiled at his obedient, capable Captain.

“Leave as soon as you’ve packed for the journey. You might reach your destination on the cusp of spring, and be back before summer. Stay away from Mirkwood so you don’t alert Thranduil of our plan, or meet spiders again.”

“I shall travel faster without a noisy and hungry pony. It makes the journey easier on the main road south without a pony trudging behind in the snow and needing rest,” Dwalin pointed out.

“Good thinking, and take someone with you. You can’t be out there alone, not during these worrisome times when orcs roam the lands and attack travellers. Why not take Kili?” Thorin suggested but quickly noticed Dwalin’s bothered face.

“Eh, Your Majesty, with all due respect… I know Kili is a skillful and restless lad, but to have him by my side would be somewhat tiring for such a long journey. I would prefer to give the opportunity to a younger, newly appointed guard, with some years of experience in the guarding troops of Erebor.

Thorin gave in. “You’re right; Besides, Kili is better needed here by Fili’s side. Five winters have gone by since Fili wedded Nera and they’re already expecting a dwarrow! I’m feeling blessed for my family’s happiness, but Fili is growing nervous for the delivery. You’re right; Kili should stay here and help take his mind off things.”

Dwalin opted to appease his King’s obvious distraction with his family.

“The golden prince and the lovely princess have fulfilled their duty and given us an heir. People say dwarflings are conceived more often now when the exile of our people is over.”

Thorin mock-groaned but looked very pleased. “Please; I’m getting as anxious as Fili if there’s to be a litter of grand-dwarflings. This _endless_ waiting is torment.”

“The Durin line will continue,” Dwalin reminded and received a tapping finger on his chest.

“Yes, so you better hurry so you’ll be back in time for the birth of Fili’s firstborn.” Thorin looked part joking and part menacing.

Dwalin understood he was all but ordered to be by Thorin’s side when the new heir deigned to grace them with its presence.

“I’ll do my best.”

A warrior could never guarantee a successful return home.

* * *

Already on the way from the Royal palace, Dwalin had decided which dwarf he would ask to accompany him on the secret mission.

The trustworthy and accomplished Bal accepted the responsibility as soon as Dwalin asked him after a bout of sparring in the training arena that very evening.

The lad had proved himself as Dwalin’s recruit in the long education in the academy for future guards. Bal was currently trying on the light, agile scouting troops as well as the more heavily armed vanguard that patrolled the lands of Erebor, so he could make the choice for his career in the future.

To go with Dwalin to Lothlórien wouldn’t be Bal’s first mission outside the mountain, as he had partaken in and even lead many orc hunts, but this was certainly his first mission outside the realm. Bal was a dwarf Dwalin could trust to not make mistakes and endanger both of them in the wilderness.

The next morning, as soon as daylight chased away the long night that was common during the winter, Dwalin was standing in the great hall of Erebor by the front gate.

He was gearing up for this journey to the second Elven kingdom he had to visit in his long life. While donning all his armour and weapons, with a bag slung over one shoulder, he went over the details in his mind.

Clothing he wore included leather bracers, a long, woolen shirt with long sleeves, a tunic, double-layered trousers, knitted socks, furred boots, a a warm pelt over his shoulders, and a generous cloak with a hood in the colour of white and grey to blend in with the snowy landscape outside. Dwalin had also packed mittens, blankets and one change of clothes if a snowstorm happened upon them, or if one of them fell into a hole in the ice somewhere.

Besides other necessities in the bag like provisions, firewood for the first fire, and a ring with Thorin’s Royal emblem; two ravens on either side of the Lonely Mountain to prove his association with and sanction from the King Under the Mounatin if the need arose, a bedroll was tied to the bag.

As for weapons, Dwalin was carrying a lot of them. A smaller dwarf would be weighted down by the heavy metal. Sharpened knuckle dusters, knives hidden in clever pockets on the underside of the pelt, Grasper and Keeper on their usual place on Dwalin’s broad back and smaller axes in the large belt around his waist. A long dagger lay in the middle of the bedroll and several throwing knives were placed in his boots. After all, it was Dwalin who had once taught Fili how to hide many weapons on his person.

Dwalin chose to forego shield and helmet. He preferred to move unrestrained and keep his vision free from blind spots. He had a thick skull anyway, and he was capable of keeping enemies from reaching him. Dwalin had rarely been fighting defensively and been in need of a shield.

Dwalin nodded to himself and thought that he had indeed remembered to bring everything he would need for the journey. All that remained to do before heading out into the morning light was to say goodbye to his dear ones.

A glance sideways told him that his travelling companion was almost ready as well. Bal was saying goodbye to his, by mining, dusty father and healthily round mother with a sleepy dwarfling clutching her skirts.

Bal had decided to wear a helmet which covered his brown, volumous hair. A breastplate would protect his front and back and the sturdy sword at his side would be useful in battles. Otherwise Bal looked like Dwalin with a similarly coloured cloak, warm garments and a filled bag.

The younger dwarf looked excited to leave as he eagerly bid farewell to his family and then to a few gathered friends but no-one who obviously called themselves his One.

“Did you pack your wrist warmers? It’s cold in the wilderness and I didn’t spend three candles and half a ball of thread so you could _look_ at Ori’s present.”

A warning came from below and Dwalin lowered his gaze to see Dori glaring up at him with his hands on his hips. Dwalin chuckled as he affectionally pressed his forehead to Dori’s carefully to not disrupt the elegant braids on top of the older dwarf’s head.

“They’re strapped tight to my arms under the bracers. I appreciate your work, Dori.”

“Alright, just come back safely as soon as you’re able.” Dori plucked specks from Dwalin’s cloak while Nori rocked up on the heels of his boots and smirked imperiously at the departing warrior being fussed over by his brother.

“Try not to pick a fight with the elves. No-one appreciates a brute,” Nori said.

Dwalin remarked acidly while stepping away from Dori’s grooming fingers, “Neither does anyone like a thief. I’ve locked my door and counted all my possessions, so if anything is missing when I return, I’ll have your hide.”

Nori grimaced at him but received a hard stare from Dori before the white-haired dwarf turned back to Dwalin.

Dwalin muttered silently, cautious of the curious ears of early dwarves who noticed the commotion at the gate, “I take it you know about the elves I’m going to visit, and why?”

Nori nodded, serious now. “We heard from Gloin that Thorin got a letter from Gimli and that there’s a sick dwarf being hidden by the elves. You’re the right dwarf to investigate the truth behind this. Thorin is unusually quiet about the details of this quest.”

Dwalin grunted his agreement, feeling bad that the two brothers apparently, and perhaps thankfully, didn’t know the name of the poor fellow in Lothlórien. It would break their hearts if they heard of another Ori suffering in the world. It tugged at Dwalin’s core as well to know that a frightened, confused dwarf named Ori dwelled with the elves.

“It’s a delicate matter, and so far the elves have the advantage of knowing more than we do,” Dwalin settled for as an excuse on Thorin’s behalf.

The secretive nature of the quest was one reason to why Thorin wouldn’t bring the Royal family down to the great hall to bless the two warriors in a formal ceremony. Officially, Dwalin and Bal were on their way north to hunt goblins that could be sneaking too close to the mountain.

Dori sighed and stroke Dwalin’s arm.

“Mahal be with you on this journey. You’ve trained and are stronger than ever. You can make this journey and return with a dwarf that Erebor doesn’t abandon lightly.”

“I intend to, Dori. Thank you,” Dwalin stated before he joined Bal and the two of them went through the front gate together to embark upon a long journey through snow and ice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Gimli totally read too much into Ori’s statement that maybe he recognized the Fundin line. I know it might seem strange that Dwalin cannot believe it's Ori in Lothlórien, but remember that Dwalin thinks he saw Ori's corpse in Moria. I imagine for this story that Ori is as common a name as John in the UK. After all; Thorin was called King Thorin II, so there was another dwarf named Thorin, and there're other examples of shared names amongst the characters Tolkien created.
> 
> In chapter 3, Bal features as one of the adepts Dwalin actually praises. I thought it would be interesting to show how the time has passed since Ori left Erebor with Balin. The recruit has become a soldier...
> 
> Hang in there for the next chapter, my friends.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Return to love.

**Chapter 12**

**Inspiring song: Iluminated - Hurts**

Time waits for no one,  
So do you want to waste some time,  
Oh, oh tonight?  
Don't be afraid of tomorrow,  
Just take my hand, I'll make it feel so much better tonight.  
  
Suddenly my eyes are open,  
Everything comes into focus, oh.  
We are all illuminated,  
Lights are shining on our faces, blinding.

_February year 3019 (Fellowship leaving Lothlórien, Ori's 154, Dwalin 247)._

Some days after he had looked into Galadriel’s mirror, Ori shyly watched the fellowship assisting elves on the docks with loading the boats with provisions in the morning light. The strange party of men, elves, hobbits, and the one dwarf was leaving today on the river.

Ori couldn’t help but feel ashamed for the way he had used a possession of Galadriel without asking permission, so he decided to keep out of trouble and attention this day. It wasn’t an excuse that he had felt compelled to look into the water mirror, nor that Celeborn seemed to think the whole experience would bring more memories to Ori. He would need to make amends and apologize formally to the elven queen.

Although, Ori hadn’t yet found the right opportunity to do so, as Galadriel seemed unusually subdued and tired ever since that night when she also had been by the mirror. Ori didn’t begrudge Celeborn for spending more time with her to help her return to herself.

Ori gasped quietly when the dwarf Gimli with blankets in his arms turned around and caught him looking. Ori ducked behind gathered elves and trees and withdrew from the docks. He had a feeling Gimli was waiting for a last opportunity to speak to him, but Ori would behave and not cause trouble today.

He knew how hesitant the elves of Lothlórien were of the strange dwarf in their kingdom. Yes, it was rude and cowardly to blatantly avoid Gimli before his departure, but Ori had had enough of dwarves in his world recently. Dwarves around the palace, dwarves in magic mirrors, and dwarves in his dreams.

The shapes, except for Gimli of course, were never more than hair colours and faint features. The silver one and red one kept reappearing together in his mind and in his dreams, even if they sometimes transformed into those horrible black creatures called orcs.

Ori had haltingly inquired in the palace library where he might find notes about orcs, but the reaction he had received had made him doubt there was any book in Caras Galadhon which told the history of orcs.

Yet, he remained curious, as was his trait. He figured that if he dreamt so clearly of orcs, he must have encountered some of them once in his life. But when and why? And most importantly; how had a feeble dwarf like him survived such a meeting with brutal creatures?

Ori shook his head at his thoughts and turned his mind to another subject which wasn’t perhaps more pleasant, but at least more intriguing. For some reason, he had a desire to keep details of the other dwarf he kept seeing in dreams from the elves. Even Celeborn hadn’t heard him speaking more of that dwarf since the unfortunate night by Galadriel’s mirror.

Once the mornings awoke Ori, he realized the dreams left him with a sense of being bereft. A yearning in his chest ached to the rhythm of his heart every time he rolled over in his bed and reached under the pillow for the grey stone that comforted him like flower crowns comforted elven children.

As his agitated body reacted to the dreams more often, Ori wasn’t always waking up to only a racing heart. Sometimes tears streamed down his face and were absorbed by the pillow as a mounting sorrow raged inside him.

Once in a while Ori discovered soiled trousers. It wasn’t his bladder he had emptied during the nights. Those dreaded mornings usually happened after he had dreamt long sequences containing that smiling, towering dwarf with large hands who had appeared in the mirror.

Ori would wake up with desire coursing through his heated body and soon release his lust, or having already done that while asleep. The servants who took care of laundry had never said anything about the stains on the sheets, but Ori was embarrassed all the same, even if he couldn’t help the way his body acted.

However the episodes of desire made him for once hazard a guess from the many clues in his healing mind. He had called out the name Dwalin together with the elvish word _anírion_ once when waking up and now Ori came to the conclusion that Dwalin was a name on a dwarf he wanted for whatever reason. Most likely, Dwalin was the dwarf he repeatedly dreamt about. But who was he? What was he to Ori?

Ori frowned as he stepped over roots on the path from the docks. For some inconceivable cause, Ori chose to not mention that special name to another soul; it was a secret just for him to bear. A secret called Dwalin, Dwalin, Dwalin.

* * *

 

Accustomed to the surroundings of his home, Ori could absentmindedly walk the path and duck away from branches he knew were in the way. He lifted a hand and placed it around a slim tree with smooth bark so he could use it for rotating at a sharp corner.

Ori was feeling better now, elated even, when he thought about the mysterious Dwalin. He began to hum a melody and walked with a brisker pace when he suddenly noticed a shadow in the corner of his eye.

Ori whipped his head around, the song died in his mouth, and for a moment he was terrified of orcs when he saw a dark figure. Then he regained his sense and recognized the man who was leaning with one shoulder against a tree and holding a smoking pipe.

“Good morning, Ori of Lórien.”

Once addressed by a smooth voice, Ori offered a weak smile to the human.

“Good morning. You know my name.” The last part was more a question than a statement and the dark-haired man of the fellowship nodded and plucked the pipe from his lips.

“Your name is known to the fellowship by now, but not your identity.”

Ori winced internally at the thought of gossiping hobbits and meddling dwarves talking about him: the fool without memory.

He crossed his arms and tersely grunted, “Well, I don’t know yours either, so we’re equal in that sense.”

The man stared down at him for a moment before he huffed in an amused way and held his free hand to his heart. “My apologies. I wasn’t aware that you didn’t know my name even if we were never formally introduced. My name is Aragorn, son of Arathorn.”

Ori couldn’t stay annoyed when a man behaved so courtly.

“A high-born name for a human, I believe. It sounds almost elvish, or old,” Ori commented before he blushed and stammered, “Not… not that you look old, master Aragorn! It’s the name that sounds to me as if it fits into the ancient history of Middle-Earth.”

“You would be surprised,” the man stated and almost shyly rubbed a hand over the wrinkles on his forehead. Ori frowned up at Aragorn; not completely following, but he judged the man was likely joking to himself.

Ori waved in the direction of the docks beyond the trees and asked, “Shouldn’t you be down there preparing for the journey?”

Aragorn sighed, tipped the pipe and carefully knocked it against the tree beside him so only ash and no spark fell from the stuffed pipe.

“I will, as the leader of the fellowship now. But I have waited for an opportunity to meet you, Ori.”

“Really?”

“Yes, Celeborn told me about your condition and the recent improvements. Why the elves here are very skilled with healing, especially Celeborn, I am intrigued by your loss of memory.”

“Why? There’s nothing fascinating about being a poor creature who doesn’t know who he is.”

“I do realize the tragedy of your state, but you don’t seem tragic to me, Ori. I hear you are an intelligent dwarf who seeks out knowledge from books and quickly adapts to different languages and cultures. I also hear of your prowess as a drawer.”

“Why are you speaking of my pastimes? I thought Celeborn wanted you to meet me, but I can’t imagine how a man can treat me better than His Majesty.”

A private smile graced Aragorn’s lips when he murmured, “I agree that kings may have healing powers beyond those of their subjects. And yet you do understand, Ori. I’ll not promise to cure you here and now, but I’m sharing my observations of you from a different perspective than Celeborn possesses. Because you are a stranger to me, I may evaluate you like Celeborn can’t after years spent with you in the palace. And I am of Mankind. Some say Men are weak or fragile, but there is strength in us as well. We are sometimes more inclined to trust our feelings and follow our hearts than elves or dwarves, because we have a limited time on this earth and we want to make our lives good.”

“So you’re watching me and finding out clues?” Ori uttered suspiciously and Aragorn emptied the pipe and put it back into a fold on his tunic before his green eyes bore into Ori.

“I see things in you that perhaps Celeborn and you haven’t seen.”

Ori was curious and stood in a docile manner with his arms hanging at his sides as he awaited the verdict from this Aragorn. However the following words from the man surprised him.

“I see love in you. You are loved by someone, Ori of Lórien. And your loved one isn’t here.”

A pain pierced Ori’s heart and he had to clutch his chest while his face drained.

With a trembling voice and wide eyes, he whispered, “How can you perceive all this without me even aware of it?”

Aragorn looked down at the moss-clad ground for a moment before he stated, “Because I too love someone who lives far from here. Lovers separated from each other by distance carry a sorrowful longing and it’s there in your eyes. It’s easy to see for someone who knows what to look for.”

“I’m… I’m loved?” Ori asked and his world might be tilting as he came to terms with the suddenly open emotion in his body. Yes, he was loved and he loved in that profound way lovers did, and he missed a lover.

“I think you feel it strong enough to know it’s true,” Aragorn uttered before he stepped forward, sank onto a knee before Ori, and carefully grasped his shoulders. “Promise me to never stop trying to return to your beloved. You know now that there’s a person somewhere in the world longing for you. Never yield to the dark illness in your mind when your heart is healing at the thought of love. In time, when you’re ready; find your love to at least speak about your and their fate.”

Ori nibbled on his bottom lip and nodded at the same time as he perceived the fervour and yet desolation in Aragorn’s green eyes.

“But you are doubting you’ll find your lover again,” Ori said and Aragorn’s eyes failed to hide the emotion in them.

“She’s leaving this world. She’s going west towards immortality and happiness with her kin. She will be safe there.”

Ori realized what Aragorn was confessing. “She’s an elf. But she’ll not be with you, then.”

“She belongs there, not with a man obsessed with foolish dreams.” Aragorn dropped his hands from Ori’s shoulders and stood up.

Ori felt cold and mystified by the man’s change in behaviour. “Why should I fight to leave my safe haven here in Lórien and make it back to whoever I love, when she isn’t? What do you know of love if you give one advice only to not heed it yourself?”

Aragorn was taken aback before he retorted, “I had to let her go; to make her go! Your love is different! You may still be together with them. Don’t underestimate the fierce love dwarves can feel!”

Ori backed away and shook his head, feeling disappointed. “No, you’re lying. My love and your love are the same. We’re away from our lovers and not fighting to return. We’ve given up. Can you imagine how our lovers feel about that?”

Aragorn flinched and as he staggered back to find support in the tree behind him, an elvish jewel appeared on a chain around his neck where his coat was gaping.

Aragorn followed Ori’s gaze, covered the piece of jewelry with a scarred hand, and stared at the dwarf. Ori swallowed from his unexpected outburst and his heart beat fast and hard against his ribs.

“I bid you farewell and a safe journey, master Aragorn,” Ori quipped and turned his back to the man as he made his way back to the palace, knowing he wouldn’t go back to the docks and say goodbye to the rest of the fellowship, not even Gimli who always searched for him in the crowds.

* * *

 

The roads leading south were difficult to travel on when snow covered them and made the progress slow. But driven by a mission, two dwarves trudged through the thick layer that broke in large chunks from the ice momentarily binding it together until the dwarves marched though. Dwalin wrapped the white and grey cloak around himself to fight the sharp wind which stung them and chased warmth away.

He and Bal had met few people on the road which suited Dwalin fine as they intended to keep their mission secret and they looked nothing like simple merchants with their weapons and build. But the wind and falling snow aided them and easily hid the footsteps they left on the path.

The bad weather reminded Dwalin of Caradhras above the entrance of Moria. The same icy wind plagued him here, the same howling was in the air, and the same despair planted itself in his soul. But one thing was certain. Dwalin wouldn’t let another young lad perish in enemy land like Ori. He would endure the harsh winter to rescue the captive dwarf in Lothlórien.

Dwalin's determination helped him keep a brisk pace and he often walked first to clear the way somewhat for his younger travelling companion. One day at noon, Dwalin turned and saw how Bal was lagging and keeping his head down and concentrating on each step he took.

“Bal!" Dwalin shouted over the wind, "Keep your eyes up! Your boots can walk in the snow without you staring at them. I need your keen eyes on the surroundings. This is the wilderness and there are predators here.”

The younger warrior startled and Bal looked up quickly.

“Yes, Captain," he panted and hefted his pack higher on his shoulder but kept his burden from dangling over the hilt of the sword strapped to his back. Dwalin sighed, already growing impatient with his charge even though the eager and newly promoted guard was ready for real experience. Even when formally recognized as a true soldier of Erebor, the lad still had much to learn when facing new surroundings.

“If you’re quick about it, we might be back home by Durin’s day in the autumn!” Dwalin called tauntingly over his shoulder and chuckled to himself when he heard a curse being muttered by the lad.

That very night, the two dwarves found shelter in a partly ruined shed a short walk from the exposed road. They made a bonfire from the precious dry sticks of wood in their bags, then added recently gathered but more damp branches when they knew the flames would prevail.

After they had dried their clothes and made themselves comfortable, Dwalin rummaged through his bag for the last of the provision from Erebor. If they waited any longer, the food would go to waste.

But soon they would have to hunt and gather what food they needed. Only in case of emergency would Dwalin seek out a village of people to find an inn where they could buy meals and warm beds. It was better if he and Bal stayed anonymous and spent their days and nights in the wild. Even if they had to sleep in shifts to look out for dangers, no-one knew about them or where they were headed.

They were trained for this; depending only on themselves and surviving as skilled warriors of the Lonely Mountain. But Bal was undoubtedly young, fairly inexperienced, and, as it would seem, hungry. Dwalin watched how the lad tore into his piece of wheat bread from his bag while getting the pot ready for whatever ingredients Dwalin would drop into it.

“Be economic with the bread, Bal. You’re not on a fortnight patrol and can return to Erebor and restock at any time. We’re meant to travel by speed and not stop too many times at villages and cities to buy food. His Majesty requested that we go quietly and keep our mission a secret."

Bal stopped chewing and guilt spread on his weather-beaten face but the guilt Dwalin felt for denying the other dwarf was greater.

"I understand, Captain," Bal said and held out the remaining crumbs of the bread towards Dwalin.

Dwalin snorted and settled on carrots and game in the pot this night. He relented with a glint in his eyes. "Eh, you've almost finished it anyway. Eat the rest. I need you strong and alert tomorrow."

"Thank you," Bal smiled and was more careful with not dropping bread into his brown beard.

* * *

 

Dwalin chose to lead the way towards the northern border of Rohan, wanting to stay clear of the dark forest of Mirkwood and Thranduil’s spies to not foil their plan to make it unnoticed into Lothlórien.

As he and Bal were getting closer to the natural edge of Rohan's lands, created by the great river Anduin, the snow became wetter when the sun warmed it some days. Resilient brown grass pushed through the snow but Dwalin and Bal struggled even harder in the thick banks of melting snow which clung to the soles of their boots. But on Dwalin's orders, they kept wearing the cloaks that concealed them in the mostly white environment.

They did face dangers and one particularly dangerous occasion saw the dwarves ducking behind a hill as a pack of large uruk-hai sprinted past them on the other side of the hill. The large uruk-hai were accompanied by bow-legged orcs riding fell wargs. Dwalin frowned at the scene and studied the fast scum. He would have to wait until the enemies were far away before he dared sneaking off with Bal without risking detection.

The uruk-hai were bearing the mark of a white hand on their banners and armour, but Dwalin didn't know who owned that mark and had secured the allegiance of the uruk-hai. And strangely enough, they seemed to have no trouble crossing the plain of brown grass and wet snow during the day when the sun shone through the clouds and the melting snow created sludge on the ground. These beasts appeared impossibly unaffected by the straining run over the plain.

Bal was also positioned on his belly on the ground and he puffed Dwalin on the shoulder. Dwalin kept his eyes locked on the scouting orcs rather than meeting Bal's gaze.

 “Why are these creatures roaming the lands right outside Rohan without challenge from the Rohirrim? And in broad daylight?” Bal hissed to Dwalin who shook his head and glared at the troop of running uruk-hai surrounded by orcs mounted on wargs.

“I don’t know, lad. Erebor has little business with the horse masters here. But foul creatures seem to multiply here as well as home. Dark times are upon us, it would seem.”

One of the orcs halted his growling mount and nosed the air. Dwalin knew they wouldn’t be exposed by the wind direction, but he felt unease when the orc began riding closer to their hiding place. The orc looked their way with peering eyes and something fluttering in the wind beside him caught Dwalin's eyes.

Dwalin swallowed a curse and deftly rolled onto Bal’s back and covered him as a strand of the lad’s brown hair had escaped the braid under the helmet and threatened to attract the enemy’s attention when the scout rode past them.

Dwalin swept his white cloak over Bal’s head and kept very still. The dwarf beneath him was trembling but keeping silent.

The warg barked and lunged for a rabbit that jumped in fright and scurried away from the sharp teeth of the beast. The orc upon the warg nearly lost control over the reins and screeched at the warg before harshly forcing it to return to the pack of uruk-hai who was disappearing in the distance.

When the two dwarves felt it was safe to get up and resume their journey, Dwalin gave Bal a long look and the lad looked embarrassed when he fixed the loosened braid that could have been their doom.

* * *

 

Their next challenge arrived as both a blessing and a potential trap.

The broad river Anduin had frozen over so there was a possibility for them to not seek out a surely guarded bridge or ferry. But they didn't know how much the ice could carry when the milder weather had melted snow for days.

Dwalin paced along the river and pondered the prospect while rubbing his beard. They had to cross it because it was safer for them to be inside Rohan amongst reasonable men than stay outside and travel past the edge of the vast Mirkwood. This would be a longer way, but safer, and Dwalin wanted a safe journey as long as possible. But the trouble with the treacherous, silent ice remained.

"Captain Dwalin; we need to cross now or seek cover in some bushes if we're to stay on this side of the river. We're too exposed here," Bal cleverly informed him and Dwalin gritted his teeth as he made his decision.

"We cross it. We do it fast if the ice doesn't hold. It's too far to toss our bags over to the other shore, so let's hope the ice can take our weight so we'll be dry and above water."

"I'm ready," Bal told him with resolve and strapped his bag and weapons tighter to his frame so they wouldn't be lost. Dwalin followed his lead and then the dwarves faced the river. At least Dwalin felt comforted by the fact that Bal was lighter than him with his shorter, slimmer stature.

Dwalin approached the edge of the dirty ice. He grabbed Grasper from his back and knocked the hilt of the axe against the ice to try to find the most solid part of it. Then he looked over his shoulder and gestured at Bal to go left.

"Run after me, but slightly to the left so if there's a hole behind me, you won't fall into it."

Bal nodded, and then Dwalin set a foot on the surface. The ice groaned but held. Dwalin stepped onto it and began to run. His boots barely touched the ice for longer than the blink of an eye and over the pants from his own mouth, he heard clothes rustling and provisions clattering as Bal sprinted after him.

They had come more than halfway when Dwalin flinched at a loud creak below. He never stopped moving but jumped more to the right, chancing since he couldn't know how strong the ice truly was everywhere. The creaks followed him and in the corner of his eye he spotted how Bal was surging forward even faster and going more to the left to avoid the breaking of the ice which they had started.

"Keep going!" Dwalin yelled and when he saw terrifying cracks under his feet, he smiled grimly but wouldn't resign himself to such a fate without a fair fight. He leapt over the cracks and then he was on solid ground. Dwalin nearly stumbled when dense sand stopped his advance, but his mind was elsewhere. He whirled around and began running along the shore to meet Bal who was jumping on the ice as well.

Bal had almost reached the shore when he stepped through the ice and half his body fell into the ice-cold water. Dwalin waded out until the water licked the top of his boots, and hauled a shocked Bal up by a strap on a bag. The older dwarf groaned at the strain on his arms from the weight of wet clothes and armour, but he didn't let go.

Dwalin heaved him onto the sandy shore and Bal wheezed in need of air. The upper body was still dry, but the lad's lips were turning a bad shade of blue and Dwalin sighed. They couldn’t move on and make good use of the daylight while Bal was drenched and cold.

“We find a safe place for a fire and then you change into my dry clothes from my bag. I’ll get the fire going,” Dwalin muttered and helped Bal stand up.

“We can continue. I’m alright, Captain,” Bal protested even though his clattering teeth betrayed him.

Dwalin studied his shivering form and remarked sourly, “You almost drowned. You should know that ice near shores is always weakest. Especially on usually coursing rivers.”

“It wasn’t my fault the ice didn’t hold my weight when it had been steady for you before! And I wouldn’t have drowned because I know how to swim.”

“Have you ever been swimming in full armour and winter clothes under ice?” Dwalin growled and Bal fell silent and hugged himself. Dwalin raised a hand and clapped him on the back. “We can’t go further today, lest you fall ill. It’s better to rest and make an early start tomorrow.”

Bal shrugged off the hand and stomped off, whether from frustration or attempting to chase the chill from his bones, Dwalin wasn’t sure.

A feisty warrior, that one, but even those needed to learn their limits and when to take care of themselves, so they could serve Erebor in the long run. Bal's stubborn nature reminded Dwalin a little of Ori. The youngsters never liking it when the elders were right. Dwalin chuckled to himself and went after Bal who was competent enough to find a suitable place to set up camp.

* * *

 

In the evening, after a warm meal, clothes put on stones to dry near the fire, and not yet tucked into their bedrolls, Bal’s sat quietly in slightly too big clothes with his eyes locked on the swaying flames and Dwalin sat down and mended a seam on his bag. Dwalin would take the first watch so the lad could recuperate from the ordeal by the river.

Suddenly words left the lad and it took a while before Dwalin realized the other warrior was addressing him.

“I won’t be a liability on this quest.”

Dwalin put down the bag and glanced at Bal who kept his knees folded to his chest and eyes focused on the fire. At least his lips had returned to normal colour, and his face was flushed from the warmth, but not damp from fever. Good.

“I didn’t choose you as a companion I expected to be a liability,” Dwalin said slowly.

“Then why do you always make me feel like a burden, even when I’m keeping the same pace as you and contributing to the food supply?” Bal had a reproachful tone and Dwalin looked up at the starry sky, internally sighing at the insecurity that constantly plagued youngsters' confidence.

“A warrior can always take advice and learn new tricks. Even in my age, I look for news that will keep me alive in battle and on patrol. Never allow your control to slack when you’re on duty, Bal. That’s when you make mistakes that at worst could cost you your life, the lives of others, or the safety of Erebor. I wish only to prevent you from coming to harm.”

“So you’re helping me, Captain? You want me to become a better dwarf?”

The brown-haired dwarf seemed stunned by this thought and Dwalin let out a hushed chuckle. “Believe it or not; I’m not one for antagonizing the best recruit I’ve trained in years.”

A blush at the praise bloomed on Bal’s cheeks and he rubbed his feet together. “You think I’m the best one?”

Dwalin raised a hand and waggled a finger in playful warning. “Now that’s fishing for compliments and I won’t stand for it. Go to bed now, lad. You need proper rest.”

Being considerably calmer, Bal obediently crawled into his bedroll close to the fireplace, with his head near Dwalin but looking away at the outer ring of light their fire gave. Dwalin heard and watched that the other dwarf didn’t fall asleep according to how his chest rose and fell too fast. Dwalin patiently waited for Bal to end the charade and say whatever was on his mind.

“Thank you for probably saving my life on the river, Captain Dwalin.”

“Think nothing of it. It’s what warrior brothers do for each other. I expect the same favour of you if I ever find myself in similar peril.”

Bal rubbed his nose on the edge of the bedroll and snuggled lower in the warm blankets.

“Goodnight, Captain,” Bal murmured, but he sounded more giddy than sleepy and Dwalin identified the tone in his voice. The lad adored him. From the first day in the sandy training arena years ago, until now on a mission in the wilderness, Bal thought him the greatest of heroes; the mighty Dwalin from the legendary Company of King Thorin Oakenshield.

But if Bal appreciated him, was he also infatuated with him? Dwalin hoped not, because he could never love another dwarf. It would be cruel to subject a young creature to his ancient misery and grief. Dwalin wouldn’t trap Bal in a sick union.

“My Lord?”

Dwalin’s breath caught in his throat when Bal used the title he had outside the vanguard, when Bal addressed him as the private dwarf Dwalin and not as the Captain.

“What?” he grunted.

“Your One. He is gone.”

Dwalin hadn’t anticipated that statement and closed his eyes. For years, Ori had been gone from him.

A short pause was followed by a tentative question, “You know you can fill your life with other dwarves?”

The lad meant well, but his words drove the wedge harder into Dwalin’s torn heart. Gruffly, he replied, “When you find your own One, you’ll know your love will last forever. Even past death.”

Bal shifted around in the bedroll until he could bravely turn his face towards Dwalin while lying on his back and being so open and vulnerable to Dwalin.

“What if I’ve found my One, my Lord?” His voice hitched at the end of the sentence and Dwalin felt compassion when he met Bal’s hopeful and lustful expression.

“You haven’t, Bal. You would feel it strongly if that happened, and the dwarves in your presence would know it too.”

“But I want you, my Lord.”

Dwalin hung his head and his greying beard waved. “You can’t have me, Bal. I still belong to the dwarf I lived with, 'til the death. It’s not true love you’re feeling. You’re young and haven’t felt that deeply rooted love in your heart yet. Your love for a One is always met by the One’s love for you. The true love never works only one-way.”

When spotting the devastated look on the younger dwarf, Dwalin relented, “You will find a fine, perfect, and crafty dwarf one day, Bal. You still have many decades ahead of you. Despair not and go to sleep now. We have to travel deeper into Rohan tomorrow, away from the unprotected border."

Bal finally fell silent and rolled onto his side and found sleep. If Dwalin noticed red-rimmed eyes and taut features some hours later when Bal got up to keep watch, he didn’t say anything about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took a liberty from canon verse here, as in the fellowship not leaving the day after Frodo looked into the mirror, but some days later. I wanted the dove to have a chance reaching Erebor and Dwaling setting out on the journey early in the year. This shouldn't matter much, but I thought you should know when I'm deviating. I hope you find the intrigues interesting, as Dwalin is well on his way to Lothlórien, and Ori is connecting more and more memories. I appreciate comments.

**Author's Note:**

> Here's the time info:  
> Year 2772= Dwalin's birth.  
> 2865= Ori's birth.  
> 2941= BoFa, Smaug defeated, and Erebor reclaimed.  
> 2989= Campaign for Moria, Ori's 124, Dwalin 217.  
> 2994= Fall of Moria.  
> 3019= Fellowship enters Lothlorien, Ori's 154, Dwalin 247.
> 
> I'll include their age and the years when it's necessary so I make it clear with you.  
> Tell me what you thought if you want, by commenting. :)


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